LONDON 


INTIMATE  PICTURE 


HENRY 
JAMES 
FOR MAN 


LONDON 

AN 

INTIMATE    PICTURE 


By  HENRY  JAMES  FORMAN 

IN  THE  FOOTPRINTS  OF  HEINE 
THE  IDEAL  ITALIAN  TOUR 
LONDON— AN  INTIMATE   PICTURE 


Copyright  by  Stereo-  Travel  Co. 

Horseguard  at  Entrance  to  Whitehall 


LONDON 

AN 

INTIMATE     PICTURE 


/ 


BY 
HENRY  JAMES  FORMAN 

AUTHOR  Or 
"THE  IDEAL  ITALIAN  TOUR,"    ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

McBRIDE,  NAST  &  COMPANY 

1913 


Copyright,     1913,    by 
McBeide,  Nast  &  Co. 


Second  Printing 
January,  1914 


Published,  November,  1913 


LiWliY 
Lm»^.v^.  ;i  O.  CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  DARUARA 


TO 

FILSON  YOUNG 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I     The   Lure  of  London 1 

II  The  Atmosphere  of  London    ....  7 

III  Trafalgar  Square  and  the  Strand   .      .  14 

IV  A  Walk  in  Pall  Mall  and  Piccadilly  .  36 

V  Fleet  Street  and  the   Temple    ...  58 

VI  From  St.  Paul's  to  Charter  House   .      .  77 

VII     The    City:    Some    Milton,    Shakespeare 

and  Dickens  Land 95 

VIII  The    Tower 117 

IX  Whitehall  and  Westminster   .      .      .      .127 

X  Galleries   and   Pictures 151 

XI  Here  and  There 171 

XII  The  London  of  Homes 185 


THE  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Horseguard  at  Entrance  to  Whitehall      .      Frontispiece 

Thames  Embankment  and  Cleopatra's  Needle     .      .  2 

Trafalgar    Square 16 

Waterloo  Bridge,  showing  entrance  to  subway   .      .  24 

St.  Clement  Danes  Church 32 

Piccadilly  Circus 40 

St.  Mary  le  Strand 60 

Queen  Anne  Statue,  before  St.  Paul's      ....  78 

Sentry  at  Buckingham  Palace 86 

Fishing  in  the  Green  Park 98 

St.  Saviour's  Church 112 

On    Tower    Bridge 120 

Westminster  Bridge,  showing  "  Big  Ben  "     .       .       .134 

One  of  Landseer's  Lions  and  the  National  Gallery   .  154 

The  British  Museum 172 

Thomas  Carlyle  Statue  on  Chelsea  Embankment      .  194 


LONDON 

AN 
INTIMATE    PICTURE 


London:  An  Intimate  Picture 


THE       LURE       OF       LONDON 

TO  those  of  us  whose  tongue  is  English,  Lon- 
don is  the  most  romantic  spot  on  earth. 
I  am  aware  of  the  sweep  of  such  a  gen- 
eralization. You  may  love  your  Italy  and  warmth 
and  sunlight,  and  you  may  look  upon  Florence, 
Venice,  Sorrento,  Monte  Carlo,  as  spots  created 
for  bliss  terrestrial.  It  is  my  own  case !  You 
may  even  know  something  of  what  is  spoken  of  as 
The  Call  of  the  East.  Gloomy  days  of  fog  and 
rain  may  thrust  before  you  irresistibly  the  mirage 
of  gleaming  white  houses  screened  by  palmetto  and 
orange  trees,  semi-tropical  verdure  of  a  freshness 
that  wrings  your  very  heart  with  longing  for  them. 
Or  you  may  have  a  taste  for  the  clear,  dry  air  and 
snows  of  the  North.  Yet  to  me,  at  all  events, 
nothing  is  comparable  to  the  romance  of  London. 
I  have  lived  there  and  merely  visited,  absented  my- 
self for  years  at  a  time,  and  still  the  call  of  Lon- 
don is  stronger  than  any  other  call,  and  ultimately, 

[i] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

regardless  of  the  initial  direction,  London  is  the 
crowning  stage  of  every  European  journey,  if  not 
its  end. 

Upon  the  reasons  for  that  fact  a  good  deal  of 
philosophy  has  been  expended,  but  mostly  in  vain. 
An  English  writer  in  the  Daily  Mail  sums  it  up 
that  "  we  want  to  be  where  our  friends  are,  where 
our  interests  are,  where  one  can  live  most  vividly 
and  with  keenest  zest."  Patently  inapplicable  is 
such  a  view  to  the  thousands  upon  thousands  of  us 
who  are  not  Londoners  or  even  Englishmen.  Our 
friends  are  not  there,  nor  any  of  our  material  in- 
terests. We  have  no  stake  in  London,  and  the 
hotel  porter  may  be  our  sole  acquaintance.  Yet 
so  far  as  concerns  the  zest,  most  of  us,  strangers 
and  aliens  though  we  may  be,  can  undertake  to 
prove  our  title  against  many  a  Londoner.     Why? 

For  a  hundred  reasons,  not  one  of  which  will 
bear  close  examination,  or  any  rational  analysis. 
There  are  the  fog  and  the  soot,  and  the  rain  and 
the  leaden  skies,  but  there  is  also  a  certain  whim- 
sical, classic,  transcendental  charm  that  defies  re- 
duction to  words.  Whistler  to  a  certain  extent 
conveyed  it  in  his  etchings,  but  only  to  the  merest 
shadow.  It  may  lie  in  the  tortuous  streets,  or  in 
the  quaintness  of  their  names ;  in  the  look  of  Traf- 
algar Square  or  in  the  accent  of  your  cabman;  in 
the  gray-black  aspect  of  the  Law  Courts,  the  Na- 
tional Gallery,  or  the  Government  buildings,  that 

[3] 


THE   LURE   OF   LONDON 


seem  to  have  risen  from  the  sea,  dripping  still,  or 
possibly  in  the  Embankment  Gardens.  To  one 
man  the  attraction  lay  in  going  nightly  to  the  pit 
of  a  theater,  and  to  another,  a  teetotaler,  in  pass- 
ing his  days  within  the  American  Bar  of  the  Savoy 
Hotel ! 

"  At  all  times,"  observes  Ford  Madox  Hueffer, 
"  London  is  calling ;  it  calls  in  the  middle  of  our 
work ;  it  calls  at  odd  moments,  like  the  fever  of 
spring  that  stirs  each  year  in  the  blood.  It 
seems,"  he  adds,  "  to  offer  romantically,  not  streets 
paved  with  gold  but  streets  filled  with  leisure, 
streets  where  we  shall  saunter,  things  for  the  eye 
to  rest  on  in  a  gray  and  glamourous  light,  books  to 
read,  men  to  be  idle  with,  women  to  love."  One 
cannot  but  be  dubious  upon  some  of  these  points, 
and  as  to  streets  paved  with  gold,  we  visitors,  if 
anyone,  supply  the  paving  material.  But  there  is 
no  manner  of  doubt  as  to  the  call,  nor  yet  the 
charm,  exquisite  and  indefinable,  of  the  gray  and 
glamourous  light. 

No  visitor,  for  example,  doubts  at  first  sight  that 
the  vast  Gothic  pile  of  the  Law  Courts  is  at  least 
five  centuries  old,  that  long  before  Shakespeare  or 
Dr.  Johnson  it  stood  there  at  the  top  of  the  Strand, 
a  guardian  of  the  Fleet  Street  frontier,  somber, 
massive,  dun-colored,  a  witness  to  the  power  and 
firmness  of  English  justice.  Yet  the  building  was 
only  begun  in  1874,  and  occupied  some  eight  years 

£3] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

later.  But  the  fogs  and  the  rains  have  made  it 
"  gray  aQd  glamourous,"  and  with  all  respect  to  the 
Royal  Academy,  the  rains  and  the  fogs  are  the  best 
artists  in  England.  That,  too,  is  part  of  London's 
lure. 

Subtly  and  indescribably  thrilling  is  it  to  the 
wayfarer  from  overseas,  or  even  from  the  Provinces, 
to  find  reminders  of  Dickens  in  Fleet  Street,  a  remi- 
niscence of  Dr.  Johnson  at  the  Cheshire  Cheese  and 
the  memory  of  Tennyson  hovering  over  "  The 
Cock,"  where  Will  Waterproof  wrote  his  lyrical 
monologue ;  where,  in  the  words  of  even  the  present 
head  waiter,  no  longer  plump,  they  still  "  do  you 
very  well,"  in  the  matter  of  a  joint  or  a  cut  of  beef. 
You  may  find  yourself  wandering  in  darkest  Soho, 
in  search  of  Chianti,  or  a  foreign  book,  and  passing 
unawares  the  house  in  Frith  Street  where  Mozart 
lodged  (No.  51)  or  where  Hazlitt  died  (No.  6),  or 
you  may  be  looking  for  a  French  restaurant  in  Ger- 
rard  Street,  only  to  stumble  upon  an  ancient  home 
of  the  poet  Dryden  (at  43)  or  (at  37)  of  Edmund 
Burke.  Yet,  a  step  away,  is  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  a 
raging,  bustling  theatrical  district,  not  unlike 
Broadway,  New  York,  or  the  Paris  Boulevards, 
where  few  passers  doubtless  think  upon  Hazlitt,  re- 
member Dryden,  or  even  the  philosopher  of  the  sub- 
lime and  beautiful. 

And  not  so  long  ago,  while  wandering  about 
Campden  Hill  in  quest  of  quarters  for  the  winter, 

[4] 


THE   LURE   OF   LONDON 


the  present  writer  suddenly  espied  a  tablet  gleaming 
upon  a  fine  old  house  richly,  luxuriously  set  in  a 
garden  of  which  the  gates  chanced  to  be  open.  A 
plumber  was  working  leisurely  upon  some  water 
pipes  and  an  air  of  delightful  summer  idleness  hung 
about  those  silent  precincts. 

"What  does  that  tablet  signify?"  I  paused  to 
ask  the  plumber  near  the  gate. 

"  Eoh,"  said  he,  "  that's  where  Lord  Macaulay  — 
'im  as  was  the  'istorian  —  lived  an'  died  in  1859. 
This  'ere  is  'Oily  Lodge !  "  That  also  seemed  a  part 
of  the  lure  of  London. 

To  the  Englishman,  of  course,  the  significance  of 
London  is  multiplied  a  thousandfold.  It  is  the  cap- 
ital of  his  country,  the  center  of  his  creeds,  political, 
religious,  social  and  even  economic  —  in  these  days 
when  all  of  us  must  be  economically  baptized.  The 
Anti-Socialist  Society  is  spread  out  in  the  luxurious 
rooms  in  Victoria  Street,  the  Fabian  Society  rules 
powerful  in  Clement's  Inn,  and  even  at  the  National 
Liberal  Club  history  may  be  daily  made.  To  the 
fashionable  London  is  society ;  to  the  studious,  the 
British  and  other  museums ;  to  the  gay,  a  music 
hall ;  to  the  rich,  a  market-place ;  and  to  the  empty 
it  takes  the  place  of  a  soul.  Those  of  us  who  ar- 
rive from  overseas  look  perhaps  chiefly  for  glimpses 
of  the  old ;  the  Englishman,  however,  beyond  a  doubt 
comes  to  seek  the  new,  the  topmost  degree  of  pres- 
ent day  civilization.     And  that  is  a  notable  feature 

£5] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

of  London.  Whatever  the  French  may  say  of  Paris, 
London  is  certainly  the  most  complete,  as  well  as  the 
largest  city  of  the  globe.  A  disillusionizing  resi- 
dence in  Paris  has  convinced  me  that  I  could  be 
quite  happy  never  again  to  see  the  modern  Athens, 
as  they  call  it;  but  it  would  mean  exile  to  be  de- 
barred the  rest  of  life  from  London. 

Comparisons  are  said  to  be  always  odious,  but 
surely  it  cannot  be  reprehensible  to  warn  those  who 
look  forward  to  a  sojourn  in  Paris  that  they  are 
certain  to  be  disappointed ;  that  there  is  no  comfort 
there,  except  for  the  very  rich ;  that  there  is  no 
longer  any  courtesy,  if  ever  it  has  been  there ;  that 
a  society  has  actually  been  formed  for  the  purpose 
of  promoting  better  manners  among  the  constantly 
coarsening  population,  and  that  even  every-day  hon- 
esty is  dwindling  to  the  vanishing  point.  Of  Lon- 
don none  of  these  things  may  be  said  with  justice, 
and  that  is  why  a  sojourn  in  London  is  so  much 
richer  in  returns  than  one  in  Paris.  In  short,  the 
lure  of  Paris  is  the  result  largely  of  a  belief  in  ster- 
eotyped phrases,  whereas  the  lure  of  London  is  a 
substantial  actuality. 


[6] 


II 

THE       ATMOSPHERE       OP       LONDON 

TO  speak  of  the  "  atmosphere  "  of  a  place  has 
come  to  be  tantamount  to  slang,  and  there  are 
those  who  will  tell  you  irritably  that  you  can 
all  but  eat  the  atmosphere  of  London.  Putting  aside, 
however,  the  purely  pictorial  cities  of  the  world,  like 
Florence  or  Venice,  London  is  to  me  the  most  "  atmos- 
pheric "  of  them  all.  New  York  is  obviously  too  new 
for  comparison  and  Paris  is  too  self-conscious  in 
its  beauty;  as  for  Berlin,  it  might  have  been  built 
by  the  police !  But  London  is  unconscious,  and 
that  is  a  great  point  in  its  greatness.  The  best  of 
London,  from  the  visitor's  point  of  view,  may  be  in 
an  open  space,  free  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven,  or 
tucked  away  in  a  nook  that  only  a  cabman  can  find. 
For  to  many  of  us,  if  not  to  all,  Nelson's  column 
in  Trafalgar  Square  is  no  more  interesting  than, 
say,  the  little  house  at  the  bottom  of  Craven  Street 
where  Heine  lived  in  1827,  or  the  Carlyle  house  in 
that  brief  thoroughfare,  Cheyne  Row,  or  his  statue 
in  Cheyne  Walk.  There  is  one  pleasant  dwelling  in 
St.  James's  Square  (Number  10)  that  has  held  as 
tenants   three   prime  ministers   of  England  —  Pitt, 

[7] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

Lord  Derby  and  Gladstone  —  to  say  nothing  of 
Lady  Blessington ;  and  so  sleepy  a  region  as  Onslow 
Square  contains  a  home  of  Thackeray.  The  Lord 
Mayor  is  gorgeous  at  the  Mansion  House  in  the 
heart  of  the  city,  whereas  the  Premier  is  hidden 
away  in  the  gloomy  little  alley  that  is  Downing 
Street ;  and  the  site  of  Sir  Thomas  More's  garden 
where  that  luxurious  prince,  Henry  VIII,  often 
lolled  as  a  guest,  is  now  occupied  by  a  scries  of  model 
tenements  built  by  the  borough  of  Chelsea!  That 
is  London.  It  is  not  that  these  things  are  more  ro- 
mantic than,  let  us  say,  the  Isle  of  St.  Louis  in 
Paris,  but  simply  that  they  mean  more  to  us  of 
Anglo  Saxon  rearing. 

The  charm  of  tradition,  however,  is  far  from  be- 
ing the  only  species  of  London  charm.  Whistler, 
it  is  said,  was  the  first  to  discover  the  "  mysterious 
and  fugitive  "  beauty  of  the  town  and,  through  the 
fog,  saw  in  every  chimney  a  towering  campanile. 
But  it  is  impossible  to  think  that  Whistler  was  alone 
in  his  discovery.  On  any  partially  clear  day  you 
may  walk  along  the  Chelsea  Embankment  from 
More's  Garden  and  be  not  precisely  flooded  (London 
beauty  is  not  of  the  flooding  kind),  but  steadily 
permeated  by  a  delicate  picture  composed  of  ele- 
ments no  more  choice  than  the  Thames,  a  few  low- 
lying  barges  in  mid-stream  and  a  fringe  of  shadowy 
trees  marking  the  edge  of  Battersea  Park  beyond. 
The  mist  from  the  muddy  waters  of  the  river  and 

[8] 


THE  ATMOSPHERE  OF  LONDON 

the  blue  haze  clinging  about  those  trees  transform 
the  scene  into  a  kind  of  mirage,  captivating  to  the 
eye,  fascinating  to  the  imagination,  an  altogether 
strange  and  beautiful  vision.  Yet  beyond  the  park 
lies  nothing  more  alluring  than  the  drab,  Harlem- 
like region  of  Battersea  —  though  somewhere  under 
its  chimney-pots  dwells  Mr.  John  Burns,  the  Labor 
member  of  the  Cabinet,  dreaming,  no  doubt,  of  the 
next  time  when  he  should  sleep  at  Windsor  Castle, 
the  guest  of  his  Sovereign.  That,  too,  is  London ! 
It  must  be  owned  that  this  "  atmosphere  "  is  a 
fleeting,  nameless  thing,  and  does  not  vibrate  upon  all 
occasions  or  to  all  eyes  alike.  You  may  wander  into 
the  Temple  and  see  nothing  but  the  hurrying  law- 
yers and  their  clerks,  garnishing  the  gray  picture 
with  their  monotonous  silk  hats,  or  you  may  per- 
ceive a  hidden  subtle  romance  incomparable  to  that 
of  any  other  spot  on  earth.  I  have  myself  strolled 
there  in  both  moods.  Or,  guide-book  in  hand,  you 
may  toil  up  a  narrow  stairway  to  Prince  Henry's 
Room,  at  17  Fleet  Street,  to  see  a  certain  Jacobean 
ceiling  and  remain  to  refresh  yourself  at  the  Tem- 
ple tea-rooms  on  the  floor  above,  an  altogether  de- 
lectable spot,  rich  in  toasted  scones  and  delicious 
fruit  salad,  unmentioned  in  Baedeker,  though  per- 
haps as  interesting  as  the  ceiling.  A  number  of 
those  same  Temple  lawyers  and  sundry  journalists 
gather  there  of  an  afternoon,  and  their  talk,  which 
you  cannot  help  overhearing,  brings  you  nearer  to 

[9  ] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

England  than  what  is  left  of  Temple  Bar  in  the 
street  below.  And  the  other  day  I  was  struck  by 
the  advertisement  of  a  music  hall  in  the  Strand  an- 
nouncing a  set  of  "  motion-pictures "  depicting 
Dante's  "  Inferno."  "  Beware  of  Cheap  Imita- 
tions !  "  read  a  sign  under  the  garish  arc  lights,  and 
to  me  that  was  as  English  as  the  Tower  of  London ! 

But  the  charm  of  London  is  by  no  means  concen- 
trated in  Fleet  Street,  Westminster  or  Chelsea. 
Everywhere  among  the  miles  upon  miles  of  middle- 
class  streets,  quiet,  somber,  or  even  forbidding,  are 
scattered  bits  and  corners  that  attract  you  like  pic- 
tures hung  upon  blank  walls.  You  cannot  pass 
Buckingham  Palace  without  smiling  at  the  common- 
place ugliness  of  it,  but  you  can  stand  in  St.  James's 
Street  facing  St.  James's  Palace  with  its  clock,  its 
dark-bright  facade,  every  time  you  pass  it.  All  of 
Pall  Mall  gets  its  tone  from  that  delightful  old 
front,  and  its  unmistakably  English  aspect  speaks 
to  the  tourist  as  a  dozen  "  Frenchified "  Ritz  or 
Carlton  Hotels  could  never  do. 

The  town  is  filled  with  anomalies.  Go  from  Pic- 
cadilly through  Curzon  Street  toward  the  square 
gray  palace  that  is  the  town  house  of  the  Duchess 
of  Marlborough.  A  little  to  the  south  of  that  street 
you  may  stumble  upon  Shepherd's  Market,  one  of 
those  odd  little  backwaters  in  which  London 
abounds.     Any  evening  in  the  season  you  may  see 

men  in  evening  dress  losing  their  way  and  straying 

[10] 


THE  ATMOSPHERE  OF  LONDON 

into  this  bit  of  Dickens  land  enclosed  by  the  most 
costly  houses  in  Mayfair,  standing  upon  ground 
priceless  per  square  foot.  Footmen,  coachmen,  but- 
lers, slip  away  from  their  grand  surroundings  to  the 
bar  of  the  Sun  tavern,  here  to  unbend  and  refresh 
themselves  in  their  own  congenial  fashion.  I  have  my- 
self lost  my  way  in  Shepherd's  Market,  and  the  man 
who  directed  me,  probably  a  footman,  seemed  to 
have  a  perfect  knowledge  of  every  house  in  Mayfair. 
Or,  take  Edwardes  Square  in  Kensington.  It  re- 
minds you  of  the  mysterious  room  you  have  read 
about  in  some  ancient  house  of  fiction.  Sometimes 
the  room  is  there  and  sometimes  it  has  vanished. 
Edwardes  Square  has  similar  properties.  I  have 
gone  there  by  a  sort  of  dead  reckoning  from  Earl's 
Court  Road,  and  at  times  I  have  found  it,  at  other 
times  not.  It  took  practice  to  learn  that  by  pass- 
ing through  a  narrow  mews  you  arrived  at  one 
end  of  it.  There  is  also  a  way  from  the  Ken- 
sington High  Street.  It  is  beyond  a  doubt  one  of 
the  most  tranquil  spots  on  earth,  and  for  years  I 
have  had  in  my  eye  certain  little  houses  there,  one 
of  which  I  mean  to  acquire  before  I  die.  Not  even 
every  cabman  knows  it,  and,  in  any  case,  to  know  it 
and  to  be  certain  of  arriving  there  are  two  quite 
different  matters.  There  the  author  of  "  The  Di- 
vine Fire  "  lives  in  a  busy  seclusion,  and  many  an- 
other artist,  to  say  nothing  of  Mr.  Bonar  Law,  may 
be  found  in  those  bird  haunted  precincts.     The  local 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 


patriotism  is  strong,  and  to  be  an  Edwardes  Squar- 
ite  is  to  have  an  additional  dignity,  independent  of 
the  fact  that  you  may  be  a  great  novelist  or  the 
leader  of  the  Opposition. 

I  am  far  from  implying,  however,  that  all  of  Lon- 
don's charm  lies  in  her  streets  or  in  her  squares. 
Certain  personalities,  as  many  of  us  Americans  are 
particularly  aware,  make  what  is  best  in  London 
for  us.  I  for  my  part  think  it  a  pleasant  experi- 
ence, and  an  exciting,  to  be  on  the  spot  when  a  new 
book  appears  by  H.  G.  Wells,  or  when  Bernard 
Shaw  addresses  an  audience.  Wells,  after  all,  is 
simultaneously  published  in  America,  but  not  long 
ago,  when  I  heard  G.  B.  S.  speak  to  a  crowded  Al- 
bert Hall  on  the  need  of  legislation  for  a  minimum 
of  money  in  everybody's  pocket,  I  realized  one  of 
the  high  privileges  of  living  in  London. 

"  You  may  think,"  he  said,  with  a  grave  mien  and 
laughing  eyes,  "  that  I  love  the  poor,  but  that  is 
untrue.  I  hate  the  poor !  That  is  why  I  want  to  do 
away  with  them !  — "  or  words  to  that  effect. 

And  one  day  you  may  be  hurrying  by  the  Leices- 
ter Galleries  and  perceive  the  advertisement  of  an 
exhibition  of  caricatures  by  Max  Beerbohm.  To 
anyone  with  a  sense  of  the  comic  such  an  exhibition 
is  an  event.  The  drollery  of  it,  the  daring,  the  good 
humor,  make  it  unique  in  the  annals  of  caricature, 
and  all  the  visitors  are  laughing  and  chatting  affec- 
tionately of  "  Max."     Coffee  houses  are  gone ;  the 

[I2] 


THE  ATMOSPHERE  OF  LONDON 

old  eighteenth  century  London  will  never  return, 
and  the  coherency  of  life,  when  the  phrase  of  a  wit 
was  repeated  throughout  the  city  before  nightfall, 
is  perished  forever.  Nevertheless  London  is  the  one 
great  city  that  still  retains  at  least  a  fragment  of 
such  coherency,  and  though  the  newspaper  has  sup- 
planted the  coffee  house,  there  is  still  a  wit  here  and 
there  to  brighten  the  massive,  opulent  gloom. 


[13] 


Ill 


TRAFALGAR   SQUARE   AND   THE 
STRAND 

TRAFALGAR  SQUARE  is  the  most  unmistak- 
ably English  thing  in  London.  You  could 
not  imagine  it  in  any  other  country,  though 
it  is  worthy  of  any  country  on  earth.  Exalted  upon 
a  column  a  hundred  and  forty-five  feet  in  height 
stands  the  counterfeit  presentment  (about  three 
times  his  normal  dimensions)  of  the  man  who 
saved  England  from  invasion  by  Napoleon  and  in- 
dubitable conquest.  The  uniformly  successful  ca- 
reers of  a  Marlborough  or  a  Wellington  seem  tame 
compared  with  his,  and  yet  he  died  "  plain  "  Lord 
Nelson.  There  is  a  kind  of  pathos  in  his  heroism 
which,  combined  with  his  greatness,  sets  his  monu- 
ment apart  from  all  other  monuments.  He  seems  to 
be  gazing  out  upon  the  England  he  has  saved,  and 
upon    Westminster    in    particular,    saying, 

"  Build  your  Dreadnoughts,  but  don't  forget  to 
build  your  men  !  " 

Looking  upon  the  hurrying  throngs  at  this  vast 
cross-roads  which  is  Trafalgar  Square,  you  cannot 
help  feeling  that  the  days  of  the  Drakes  and  the 

[14] 


TRAFALGAR   SQUARE 


Nelsons  are  ended  for  England  and,  if  you  are  a 
lover  of  England,  that  fact  seems  mournful  to  you. 
It  may  be  an  optical  illusion  to  which  foreigners  are 
subject,  and  certainly,  when  you  think  of  the  vast 
empire  now  held  by  English  arms  you  are  inclined 
to  doubt  your  judgment.  But  Nelson  seems  to 
dwarf  the  entire  nation  at  present.  All  appear  to 
be  bent  upon  petty  pursuits  oblivious  alike  of  Nel- 
son or  Trafalgar,  of  Havelock  or  Lucknow,  of  Na- 
pier and  Gordon,  of  all  in  this  square.  Yet  the  sail- 
ors of  old  were  often  taken  by  press-gangs,  whereas 
to-day  there  are  voluntary  Territorials  (though  not 
enough).  Of  course  there  are  still  Lord  Roberts 
and  Lord  Kitchener.  But  if  you  look  upon  Eng- 
land with  fresh  eyes  you  cannot  help  feeling  that  she 
has  forgotten  her  greatness.  She  needs  all  man- 
ner of  artificial  stimulants,  dramas  like  "  An  Eng- 
lishman's Home  "  and  "  Drake  "  to  stir  her  patriot- 
ism, and  the  stature  of  her  men  seems  small  for  so 
great  a  race.  England  may  still  expect  every  man 
to  do  his  duty,  but  every  man  does  not  look  as  if  he 
were  fully  able.  The  new  filial  zeal  of  the  domin- 
ions, coming  forward  with  their  gifts  of  ships,  is  the 
first  intimation  of  a  rebirth  for  England,  and  Traf- 
algar Square,  one  would  think,  should  serve  Eng- 
land's mothers  as  the  straked  rods  of  the  Patriarch 
Jacob  served  the  dams   of  Laban's  flocks. 

The    three   great   hotels    extending   downward   on 
Northumberland   Avenue   to   the   Embankment    are 

Ii5] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 


alone  enough  to  make  Trafalgar  Square  a  rallying 
point  for  the  visitor.  Morley's  Hotel,  the  National 
Gallery  and  Charing  Cross  Station  are  additional 
magnets.  One  ought,  I  suppose,  to  put  in  a  word 
concerning  St.  Martin's-in-the-Fields,  as  beautiful  a 
church  as  any  in  London  and  nearly  two  centuries 
old.  But  say  what  one  will,  London  is  not  a  city  of 
churches,  or,  at  all  events,  few  people  make  a  habit 
of  visiting  churches  here  in  a  sight-seeing  sense. 
So,  if  we  mention  that  Nell  Gwynne  lies  buried  and 
Bacon  was  christened  there,  we  may  feel  free  to 
pass  on  —  not  however  without  getting  the  general 
impression  of  a  harmony  of  greyness  made  up  of 
the  Gallery,  St.  Martin's  and  some  of  the  surround- 
ing buildings. 

The  Strand  is  surely  one  of  the  least  beautiful 
thoroughfares  in  the  world,  and  yet  one  of  the  most 
alluring.  To  many  indeed,  the  Strand  is  London. 
Of  course,  the  presence  of  three  great  hotels,  the 
Cecil,  the  Savoy  and  the  Strand  Palace,  give  it  a 
certain  character.  But  the  hotels  are  not  the  rea- 
son. Londoners  fondly  imagine  it  to  be  broad. 
Even  that  is  a  mistake.  But  a  ceaseless  throbbing 
vitality  draws  the  sight-scer  and  the  Londoner,  the 
soldier  returned  from  abroad,  the  sailor  home  from 
the  sea,  or  the  provincial  re-visiting  the  glimpses 
of  the  electric  lights.  Baedeker,  I  believe,  very 
properly   calls   the    Strand    the   "  main   artery "   of 

communication  between  the  City   and  Westminster. 

[16] 


Copyright  by  Sttrro-Travtl  Co. 

Trafalgar  Square,  looking  up  St.  Martin's  Lane,  showing 
St.  Martin's  in  the  Fields  and  the  National  Gallery  to 
the  left 


TRAFALGAR   SQUARE 


It   is    an    artery.     And    though    one    can    remember 
nothing   beautiful   about   it,   one   feels   the   sense   of 
life  here  as  in  few  spots  of  London.      Haberdashers, 
jewelers,     taverns,     restaurants  —  of     such     is    the 
kingdom   of  the  Strand,  but   the  stream   of  human 
life  that  flows  down  it  day  and  night,  day  and  night, 
seems  to  give  those  shops  and  eating-houses  an  im- 
portance that  few  of  them  possess  in  reality.     Many 
indeed,  are  of  a  tawdriness  a  little  surprising  to  the 
tourist,  particularly  to  the  American  tourist.     But 
behind  each  of  them  seems  to  lie  condensed  an  an- 
cient history  like  a  Platonic  "  Idea."     Mere  casual 
associations  seem  here  to  dwindle  to  unimportance. 
For     instance     it     seems     nothing    that     Benjamin 
Franklin   lodged   at  7   Craven  Street,  or  Peter  the 
Great    at    15    Buckingham    Street.     Such    accidents 
are  the  commonplaces  of  every  old  European  city. 
But   not   long   ago   I   chanced  to  be   looking  for 
some    account    of   York    Watergate,   before    which, 
when   you   are  upon   the   Embankment,   you   cannot 
help  pausing.     It  is  a  beautiful  thing  in  itself,  and 
a  reminder  of  that  hardly  conceivable  London  when 
the   Thames   was    a   highway   resembling  the   Grand 
Canal  in  Venice   (though  faintly),  when  richly  dec- 
orated  barges    swept   it,   when   the   servants    of   fine 
gentlemen    called    "  oars ! "    precisely    as    now    they 
whistle   for    a   taxicab.     The   gate,   at   the    foot   of 
Buckingham    Street,    about    two    minutes    from    the 
Strand,  now  stands  perhaps  a  hundred  yards  away 

[17] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

from  the  river,  but  once  it  formed  the  water  steps 
of  York  House,  and  is  said  to  have  been  built  by 
Inigo  Jones.  Concerning  York  House  itself  I 
found  that  a  volume,  and  a  very  readable  one,  might 
easily   be   written. 

Originally  given  by  Queen  Mary  to  the  Arch- 
bishops of  York,  in  exchange  for  that  other  palace 
that  her  father,  the  bluff  Henry  VIII,  had  taken 
from  them,  it  remained  for  nearly  a  century  their 
town  house,  though  only  one  of  them,  Heath,  ever 
lived  there.  One  wonders  whether  even  Bishops 
could  be  superstitious  —  about  making  use  of  any- 
thing that  came  from  the  hands  of  a  Tudor!  The 
house  was  let  to  the  Keepers  of  the  Great  Seal  and 
Francis  Bacon  was  born  there  during  its  occupation 
by  his  father,  Sir  Nicholas  Bacon,  who  subsequently 
died  there.  Sir  Francis  himself  hoped  to  die  there, 
so  dear  was  the  house  to  him,  and  his  letter  to  the 
University  of  Cambridge  accompanying  the  Novum 
Organon  is  dated  Ex  Aedibus  Eborac,  3  mo.  October 
1620.  One  cannot  help  speculating,  if  he  wrote 
Shakespeare's  plays,  whether  it  was  there  by  the 
Thames  that  he  wrote  them.  A  Baconitc  might 
easily  imagine  Will  Shakespeare,  who  must  have 
been  discreet  as  a  conspirator,  stealing  across  the 
Thames  from  Southwark  to  transact  business  with 
his  "  angel "  and  distinguished  anonymous  play- 
wright. At  York  House,  too,  the  poor  learned 
Lord   Verulam    (poor   onlv    in   a   moral    sense)    was 

[18] 


TRAFALGAR    SQUARE 


finally  disgraced  and  thence  the  Great  Seal  was 
"  fetched  from  "  him.  Later  he  craved  permission 
to  return  to  his  beloved  house  for  a  fortnight,  and 
he  was  promptly  reminded  of  it  when  his  fortnight 
was  up.  He  was  not  allowed  to  die  there,  after  all. 
It  was  subsequent  to  Bacon's  expulsion  that  York 
House  was  acquired  by  King  James  I,  the  one  pedant 
on  a  throne  that  has  been  remarkably  free  from 
anything  even  remotely  resembling  pedantry,  for 
George  Villiers,  his  favorite  "  Steenie,"  first  Duke 
of  Buckingham.  Surely  no  stranger  combination 
has  ever  existed  in  history  than  that  pedantic  mon- 
arch and  that  gorgeous  beloved  Duke  of  his, 
who  rivaled  continental  kings  in  magnificence.  He 
built  upon  the  site  of  York  House  a  new  provisional 
house,  not  to  live  in,  but  "  to  make  use  of  the  rooms 
for  the  entertainment  of  foreign  princes."  For  the 
sum  of  a  hundred  thousand  florins  he  bought  from 
the  painter  Rubens  a  collection  of  gems,  antiques 
and  paintings  that  included  19  Titians,  17  Tintor- 
ettos,  13  pictures  by  Paul  Veronese,  3  by  Raphael, 
3  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci  and  13  by  Rubens  himself! 
That  was  before  the  days  of  American  competition 
for  such  things.  At  this  period,  too,  the  water- 
gate  made  its  appearance.  Less  than  a  mile  far- 
ther up  the  river  on  the  same  bank,  where  now  are 
Bouverie  and  Tudor  Streets,  was  Alsatia,  that  des- 
perate quarter  of  the  town  filled  with  thieves,  cut- 
throats, ruffians  of  every  description  whom  the  po- 

[i9] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

lice  dared  not  follow  there.  It  offered  a  criminal 
securer  sanctuary  than  any  church.  To-day  Lord 
Northcliffe  and  others  publish  their  newspapers 
there.  But  to  return  to  York  House,  "  Steenie  " 
Villiers  did  not  entertain  his  princes  in  it  for  long. 
He  was  assassinated  in  1628,  and  later,  after  the 
unpleasantness  between  Charles  I  and  Parliament, 
Cromwell  gave  the  house  to  his  own  general,  Fair- 
fax. Whereupon  Buckingham's  son,  the  second 
Duke,  returned  from  abroad,  married  the  daughter  of 
General  Fairfax  and  once  again  a  Buckingham  was 
owner  of  York  House.  Over  this  ducal  son-in-law 
Cromwell  and  his  general  subsequently  quarreled. 
Later  the  house  was  occupied  by  Ambassadors 
to  the  Court  of  St.  James,  and  Pepys,  that  elo- 
quent gossip,  often  went  to  walk  in  its  gardens  and 
to  dwell  in  memory  upon  the  splendors  of  the  first 
Buckingham.  There  was  nothing  splendid  about 
Pepys,  but  his  own  love  of  good  living  aroused  his 
sympathies  for  the  bygone  magnificence  of  the  place. 
To  speak  of  "  its  gardens,"  seems  droll  to  us  now, 
as  we  look  upon  the  dreary  back  of  Charing  Cross 
Station ;  upon  those  narrow  thoroughfares :  Villiers, 
George,  Duke  and  Buckingham  Streets!  The  truth 
is,  the  Duke  sold  the  property  for  £30,000  to  a  com- 
pany in  1672,  who  cut  it  up  into  those  very  streets, 
and  the  Watergate  alone,  deserted,  with  a  locked 
iron  door,  a  stranded,  useless  thing,  stands  as  a  wit- 
ness to  the  vanished  glory.     Even  the  association 

[ao] 


TRAFALGAR    SQUARE 


of  Evelyn  and  Steele  with  Villiers  Street  is  forgot- 
ten. Numerous,  preoccupied,  hurrying  clerks  and 
shop-girls  move  up  and  down  that  street  between  the 
Charing  Cross  Underground  station  and  the  Strand. 
For  them  York  House,  the  Duke  or  Pepys  might 
never  have  existed. 

Despite  the  lure  of  the  Strand,  it  is  always  pleas- 
ant to  avoid  a  piece  of  it,  by  going  from  Buckingham 
Street  by  way  of  John  Street  to  Adelphi  Terrace. 
That  Terrace,  built  by  four  Scotch  architects  and 
brothers  (hence  Adelphi),  Robert,  John,  James  and 
William  Adam,  who  have  given  this  little  ganglion 
of  streets  their  names,  is  another  of  those  anomalous 
spots  that  gives  London  charm.  Though  only  a 
few  yards  from  the  Strand  of  a  thousand  'busses,  it 
is  quiet  as  a  church  on  week  days,  and  the  row  of 
houses  on  the  Terrace  proper  overlooking  the  river, 
dates  without  exception  to  the  latter  half  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  On  the  way  up  John  Street, 
however,  one  must  not  forget  the  Little  Theater, 
where  dramatic  history  has  been  and  is  being  made. 
Who  that  has  seen  Miss  Lilian  McCarthy,  the  clever 
and  beautiful  wife  of  Granville  Barker,  in  "  Fanny's 
First  Play,"  will  ever  forget  the  experience?  The 
drollest,  most  trenchant,  wittiest  of  plays,  by  the 
drollest,  most  mordant  of  twentieth  century  play- 
wrights, who  can  smite  the  shrewd  conventional 
middle-class  Briton,  and  have  him  join  in  the  laugh. 
The  piece  was  produced  anonymously,  but  the  name 

[21] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE  PICTURE 

of  Bernard  Shaw  was  writ  so  large  upon  every  line 
of  it,  and  drew  nightly  such  eager  audiences  that  it 
was  deemed  best  to  leave  it  "  anonymous  "  even  to 
this  moment.  Later  another  Shaw  play  was  filling 
the  Little  Theater  ■ — "  Captain  Brassbound's  Conver- 
sion," absurd  as  a  Lewis  Carroll  nonsense  tale  and 
quite  as  amusing.  And  to  think  that  once  upon  a 
time  what  is  now  the  Little  Theater  was  occupied  by 
nothing  more  important  than  Coutts's  Bank! 

From  the  top  of  John  Street,  turning  a  step  to  the 
right,  past  the  Adelphi  Hotel,  you  find  yourself  on 
the  Terrace  proper,  and  if  you  have  not  already  for- 
gotten the  Strand,  you  now  forget  it  completely. 
You  see  at  No.  4,  which  looks  not  a  particle  less 
black  than  No.  3,  or  number  5,  a  tablet  commemo- 
rating the  occupancy  of  the  premises  by  one  David 
Garrick,  deceased  in  1779.  That  intelligence  shocks 
you  strangely.  So  absolutely  certain  are  you  that 
the  Terrace  is  unchanged  that  even  the  death  of  Sir 
Henry  Irving  must  seem  a  remoter  event  than  that 
of  Garrick.  You  cannot  but  be  startled  at  the 
thought  that  here  he  trod,  in  and  out  of  this  door- 
way, as  though  it  might  have  been  yesterday.  A 
milk-boy  was  nevertheless  delivering  milk  when  last 
I  saw  it,  and  a  coal-heaver  was  bending  under  the 
burden  of  his  grimy  sacks  in  total  unconcern.  I 
alone  was  taking  any  notice  of  the  tablet,  and  even 
I  hurried  on,  lest  the  others  should  mark  me  for  a 
fool. 

[22] 


TRAFALGAR    SQUARE 


At  Nos.  6  and  7  is  the  home  of  the  Savage  Club 
which,  as  any  Savage  will  tell  you,  is  unique  among 
clubs.  Just  as,  in  Goethe's  language,  the  blood  is 
quite  a  special  juice,  so  the  Savage  is  quite  a  special 
club.  The  king  belongs  to  it !  Of  course  that 
does  not  mean  that  he  haunts  it  nightly  at  five  to 
drink  cocktails  with  the  journalists  and  actors  who 
are  its  members,  but  he  has  been  there,  when  he  was 
Prince  of  Wales,  even  as  every  President  visits  the 
Gridiron  at  Washington.  Certain  it  is  that  the 
Savages  have  entertained  at  their  Saturday  night 
dinners  everybody  who  is  anybody  for  many  years 
past,  and  whatever  talent  a  member  may  possess  he 
must  and  does  offer  up  eagerly  for  the  pleasure  of 
the  members  assembled.  The  actor  recites,  the 
singer  warbles,  the  cartoonist  draws  his  best  carica- 
ture on  the  blackboard  of  the  smoke-laden  dining- 
room,  and  only  witty  people  like  Mr.  Griffiths,  the 
American  Consul-General,  are  allowed  to  make 
speeches  there.  Otherwise,  the  Club  is  free  from 
speeches,  hence  the  great  popularity  of  its  house-din- 
ners. 

A  few  doors  beyond  the  Savage  (I  will  not  say 
how  many)  dwells  Bernard  Shaw  himself  on  this  very 
Terrace  in  one  of  those  black  houses,  illumined  by 
perpetual  lightning  flashes. 

In  one  minute  you  may  be  back  in  the  Strand,  a 
prey  to  all  the  taxicabs  in  London,  excepting  those 
that    are    in    Piccadilly.     You    pass    the    two    vast 

[23] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

hotels,  the  Cecil  and  Savoy,  that  hold  half  America 
in  their  bosoms  and  you  may  wander  down  the  sloping 
Savoy  Street  to  see  the  little  chapel  of  the  same 
name,  all  that  is  left  of  the  ancient  Savoy  Palace, 
where  John  of  Gaunt  once  lived  and  where  Chaucer 
was  probably  married.  It  is  useless  to  reconstruct 
here  a  palace  built  in  1245,  of  which  not  a  stone  is 
standing  to-day,  but  the  Savoy  Mansions  upon  the 
site,  frequently  the  home  of  actresses  and  artists 
(as  well  as  others)  would  doubtless  please  John  O* 
Gaunt  on  that  account.  For  he  was  no  ascetic,  de- 
spite his  name,  and  another  of  his  pleasant  retreats 
is  now  occupied  by  Sir  Gilbert  Parker  at  Homestall. 

The  little  chapel  is  truly  beautiful.  You  have  to 
enter  it  through  a  tiny  graveyard,  and  the  main 
door  is  now  many  feet  below  the  surface,  but  within, 
if  you  have  a  taste  for  such  things,  is  an  atmosphere 
that  only  great  age  can  give  a  church.  That  the 
taste  for  such  things  is  rare  now-a-days  is  proven  by 
the  fact  that  you  will  probably  be  alone  in  the  build- 
ing, and  as  no  one  would  turn  on  lights  for  a  mere 
every-day  visitor,  you  will  feel  rather  than  see  the 
beauty  of  it.  George  Wither,  a  seventeenth-century 
poet,  lies  buried  there,  and  it  seems  exactly  the  place 
for  a  poet's  tomb.  A  fine  memorial  window  to 
D'Oyly  Carte  recalls  artists  of  a  later  vintage. 

Covent  Garden  is  not  improbably  associated  in  the 
American  mind  entirely  with  opera,  exactly  as  the 
Haymarket  is  with  theaters.     But  although  there  is 

[24] 


TRAFALGAR    SQUARE 


no  hay  in  the  haymarkct,  Covent  Garden  actually 
holds  the  produce  of  the  world  in  respect  of  vege- 
tables and  greens,  only  you  cannot  buy  them  there. 
Zola,  who  had  a  taste  for  themes  like  Le  Ventre  de 
Paris,  would  probably  have  embodied  this  wholesale 
market,  had  he  lived  in  London,  in  a  thrilling  novel 
entitled  "  The  Vegetarian  Stomach  of  London." 
Shop-keepers,  greengrocers  from  all  over  London, 
picturesque  costers  with  their  inimitable  carts  and 
toy  donkeys,  speaking  a  language  peculiar  to  them- 
selves, traffic  here  daily  in  a  world,  a  climate  even 
of  their  own,  all  within  a  minute's  walk  of  the  crusa- 
der sculptured  on  the  outer  court  of  the  Savoy 
Hotel !  Hucksters,  porters,  shopmen  and  market 
women  jostle  one  another  busily  and  good-humor- 
edly,  faces  brownish-red  with  exposure  emit  strange 
sounds,  the  smell  of  fresh  vegetables  and  decaying 
ones,  rises  to  heaven,  and  yet  this  is  the  place  of 
the  fashionable  opera,  where  Caruso  sings  and  Melba ; 
where  the  King  may  listen  to  them  and  where  the 
richest  of  South  African  and  American  millionaires 
nightly  appear  in  the  season  among  those  ever  pres- 
ent! 

And,  another  oddity :  the  surrounding  streets 
reek  of  literary  atmosphere  and  reminiscence. 
Thus,  Southampton  Street  holds  the  offices  of  a 
variety  of  periodicals ;  King  Street  contains  that  wit 
among  journals,  the  Saturday  Review,  and  Henri- 
etta Street  teems  with  publishing  houses,  on  the  the- 

[25] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

ory,  I  suppose,  that  it  is  dangerous  for  letters  to 
be  too  far  removed  from  the  food  supply.  King 
Street,  too,  was  the  first  home  of  the  Garrick  Club 
established  there  in  1834  before  moving  (in  1862) 
to  its  present  home  in  Garrick  Street.  Thackeray 
joined  the  club  in  '33  and  became  at  once  a  leading 
spirit  in  the  club.  Quaintly  enough,  this  club  of 
actors  and  men  of  letters  owns  its  own  oyster-bed  — 
an  achievement  beyond  the  reach  of  many  a  wealth- 
ier club.  Fielding,  the  father  of  the  English  novel 
(as  Richardson  was  its  mother),  once  edited  a  Co~ 
vent  Garden  Journal  and  later  presided  as  magis- 
trate in  the  Bow  Street  police-court.  In  St.  Paul's 
Church,  Covent  Garden  (another  of  Inigo  Jones's) 
were  married  the  father  and  mother  of  the  painter 
Turner  and  in  Maiden  Lane  near  by  he  was  born 
in  1775.  In  the  church  lie  buried  the  author  of 
"  Hudibras,"  Sir  Peter  Lely,  and  William  Wycherly. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  market  at  the  northeast 
corner  of  Bow  and  Russell  Streets,  stood  Will's 
Coffee-house,  that  was  to  the  last  quarter  of  the 
seventeenth  century  literature  what  the  Mermaid 
Tavern  was  to  Shakespeare's  day,  and  Charles  and 
Mary  Lamb  lodged  at  20  Russell  Street  in  1817. 

It  is  impossible  to  pass  Will's  over  with  a  mere 
word.  Dryden  had  his  winter  chair  there  by  the 
fire  and  his  summer  chair  out  upon  the  balcony,  and 
all  the  clever  young  men  gathered  about  that  chair 
to  catch  the  sparks  from  his  flame.     Everyone  made 

[26] 


TRAFALGAR    SQUARE 


fun  of  the  seriousness  with  which  Will's  took  itself 
and  its  literary  judgments,  yet  everyone  was  glad 
enough  of  approval.     An  old  rhyme  saith : 

To  Will's  I  went,  where  Beau  and  Wit 

In  mutual  contemplation  sit; 

But  which  were  Wits  and  which  were  Beaus, 

The  Devil  sure's  in  him  who  knows. 

To  make  amends  there,  I  saw  Dryden. 

A  Day's  Ramble  in  Covent  Garden,  1691. 

After  Dryden's  death,  Addison  carried  the  wits 
away  in  his  train  to  Button's,  across  the  way  in  Rus- 
sell Street.  Button  had  been  an  old  servant  of  Ad- 
dison, and  Mr.  Spectator  loyally  proceeded  to  make 
his  fortune. 

But  the  fruit  dealers  and  costers  who  swarm  in 
the  market  of  a  Saturday  morning,  or,  indeed,  any 
morning,  have  not  even  an  inkling  of  Dryden  or 
Addison,  nor  yet  of  Will's  or  Button's.  They  think 
doubtless,  if  they  think  at  all,  that  it  has  always 
been  a  fruit  and  vegetable  market  since  London  be- 
gan. Yet  Covent  Garden  was  originally  written 
Convent  Garden,  and  was  in  very  truth  the  garden 
of  the  convent  attached  to  the  Abbey  of  Westmin- 
ster. And  it  was  only  in  1631  that  the  square  was 
formed  (from  designs  by  Inigo  Jones)  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  Earl  of  Bedford,  who  lived  where  is  now 
Bedford  Street,  and  in  1656  that  a  few  stalls  against 
the  Earl's  wall  commenced  the  market  that  now  fills 

[27] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

the  square.  The  theater  was  not  built  until  1733 
and  the  present  opera  house  on  the  site,  not  until 
1858. 

The  Bow  Street  police-court  is  another  feature 
among  Covent  Garden  institutions.  Fielding,  the 
author  of  "  Tom  Jones  "  was  perhaps  the  greatest 
of  the  magistrates  who  have  sat  here,  and  Hazlitt 
records  seeing  the  son  of  the  novelist,  in  his  own  turn 
a  justice,  sunning  himself  in  St.  James's  Park  after 
a  day  on  the  bench  in  Bow  Street.  No  play  on  the 
London  stage  to-day  (including  even  the  non-pro- 
fessional stage)  is  comparable  to  the  drama  that  un- 
rolls itself  daily  in  the  Bow  Street  court.  I  have  sat 
there  for  days  spell-bound,  fascinated,  listening  to 
the  cases,  as  they  moved  into  the  field  of  vision  like 
slides  under  a  microscope.  No  visitor  to  London, 
it  would  seem  to  me,  could  do  better  than  to  spend 
half  a  day  in  Bow  Street.  It  presents  the  most  in- 
timate of  all  the  London  pictures.  Before  you  have 
seen  it,  the  teeming  population  of  the  town,  what 
with  its  strange  customs  and  novel  intonations,  is 
a  race  of  aliens.  But  see  a  portion  of  it  for  a  morn- 
ing or  two  reviewed  by  Mr.  Curtis  Bennett,  or  Mr. 
Marsham,*  and  the  deep  unconscious  solidarity  of 
the  human  race  with  its  cognate  weakness  and  kinship 
in  misfortune,  comes  home  to  you  like  a  wise  maxim, 
and  you  are  veritably  presented  with  the  freedom  of 
the  city.     The  police  court  is  the  best  observatory 

*  Deceased  since  this  was  written. 

[28] 


TRAFALGAR    SQUARE 


for  what  little  remains  of  the  London  of  Dickens. 
All  these  magistrates,  Bennett,  Marsham,  Plowden 
and  the  rest  are  experts  long  practiced  in  adjudging 
human  frailty,  and  to  a  packed  courtroom  they  can 
give  the  intimacy  of  a  family  council.  A  London 
editor  once  asked  the  writer  for  an  article  upon  the 
cruelty  and  abuse  of  power  by  these  metropolitan 
police  magistrates. 

I  visited  them  all  from  Bow  Street  to  Lambeth, 
from  Marylebone  to  the  Mansion  House,  and  instead 
of  burying  Caesar  could  only  praise  him.  But  praise 
is  not  of  universal  interest,  and  the  article  was  never 
written. 

Bow  Street  leads  into  Wellington  Street  and  in 
Wellington  Street  is  the  Lyceum  Theater,  so  long 
associated  with  the  name  of  Henry  Irving.  To-day 
it  is  given  over  to  melodrama,  as  is  Drury  Lane,  a 
street  or  two  away.  Having  never  been  inside  either 
house,  I  can  say  nothing  about  them. 

Somerset  House,  one  of  those  great  gray,  sea- 
bathed  palaces  distinctive  of  London,  presents  its 
western  facade  to  Wellington  Street  and  to  the  traf- 
fic rolling  across  the  Waterloo  Bridge.  There  is 
nothing  romantic  concerning  the  present  structure, 
excepting  the  wills  and  other  public  documents, 
every  one  of  which,  no  doubt,  possesses  its  own  ro- 
mance. It  was  erected  in  1786  as  a  government  of- 
fice building  and  to-day  it  swarms  with  government 
clerks    and    solicitors'    clerks    absorbed    in    probate, 

[29] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

legacy  duties,  inland  revenue,  and  so  on.  But  once 
upon  a  time  when  it  was  really  Somerset  House,  the 
one  begun  in  1549,  in  Edward  the  Sixth's  reign,  by 
the  Protector  Somerset,  who  was  subsequently  be- 
headed in  the  Tower,  both  Tudor  and  Stuart  sover- 
eigns used  it  as  a  residence.  James  I  and  both  the 
Charleses  gave  it  as  a  home  to  their  respective  con- 
sorts, and  Queen  Elizabeth  one  day  listened  to  an 
alchemist  there  who  promised  to  transmute  for  her 
base  metals  into  gold.  Cornelius  Noye  was  his 
name,  and  the  account  says  that  "  he  abused  many." 

Crossing  Wellington  Street,  however,  I  cannot 
pretend  that  it  is  the  Strand  side  of  Somerset  House 
and  King's  College  that  most  interests  me.  Baede- 
ker gives  the  exact  measurements  of  the  court  and 
the  name  of  the  sculptor  who  made  the  statue  of 
George  III.  But  a  certain  bookseller's  shop  in  the 
neighborhood  is  sure  to  attract  your  eye  more 
swiftly  than  the  other  scenery,  and  if  you  come  not 
away  with  a  depleted  purse,  you  are  luckier  than  the 
present  writer. 

The  Gaiety  Theater,  suggesting  young  peeresses 
and  flowing  champagne,  is  across  the  way,  standing 
between  the  Strand  and  Aldwych  on  a  kind  of  sacred 
soil.  Two  or  three  peers  have  actually,  in  recent 
years,  chosen  their  brides  from  the  Gaiety  chorus, 
but  one  may  imagine  a  reception  at  Devonshire 
House  even  now  as  still  more  representative  than  this 
theater    of   British    aristocracy.     A   Gaiety    restau- 

[30] 


TRAFALGAR   SQUARE 


rant  that  was  here,  filled  with  red  silken  lamp-shades 
and  very  good  food,  failed  to  pay,  and  to-day  it  is 
already  forgotten  in  the  Marconi  Wireless  Offices 
that   occupy  the  premises. 

The  breadth  of  the  Strand,  the  openness  of  the 
Crescent  of  Aldwych  and  the  sweep  of  the  new  Kings- 
way  running  into  Holborn,  give  this  region  a  spa- 
ciousness that  seems  strangely  modern  for  London. 
In  the  Kingsway  stand  at  least  two  great  buildings 
erected  by  Americans  —  the  Kodak  Company's 
premises  and  Mr.  Oscar  Hammerstein's  late  opera 
house;  in  Aldwych  stands  the  Waldorf  Hotel,  which 
also  has  a  familiar  sound  to  American  ears.  It  is 
only  recently  that  all  these  things  have  come  into 
being.  A  few  years  ago  this  was  a  crowded  quarter 
and  in  the  space  that  has  gone  to  broaden  the 
Strand,  was  Holywell  Street,  a  famous  thorough- 
fare given  up  to  book  shops  trafficking  mostly  in 
books, —  some  unmentionable  in  polite  society.  That 
trade  is  now  dispersed  and  nothing  remains  of  Holy- 
well Street  but  the  room  it  occupied.  Modernity  is 
at  work  even  in  London,  and  before  long  not  a  stone 
will  stand  in  Airley. 

The  two  churches  that  stand  at  this  point  of 
the  Strand,  seemingly  almost  alike  in  appearance, 
are  a  phase  of  that  unexpectedness  that  character- 
izes London.  One  of  them  you  would  imagine  were 
enough,  but  although  St.  Clement  Danes  was  al- 
ready  in    existence    (built    in    1681),    St.    Mary    le 

[3i] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

Strand  was  erected  in  front  of  it  (by  Gibbs)  in 
1717.  One  reason  for  that  was  that  anciently,  so 
far  back  as  1147,  a  church  was  already  standing  on 
the  spot,  and  no  less  a  divine  than  Thomas  a 
Becket  was  its  rector.  But  Somerset,  the  Protec- 
tor, had  pulled  it  down  to  make  room  for  the  house 
that  even  now  bears  his  name  and,  subsequently  the 
Strand  Maypole  was  erected  here  in  1661,  after 
General  Monk  had  succeeded  in  putting  the  Stuarts 
back  on  the  throne,  and  joy  was,  so  to  speak,  un- 
refined. With  the  coming  of  the  first  George  of 
Hanover,  St.  Mary  le  Strand  was  incontinently  re- 
built. 

Close  behind  is  St.  Clement  Danes.  Both 
churches  stand  full  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  but 
one  imagines  them  on  a  kind  of  oval,  due  to  the  om- 
nibuses curving  round  them  to  the  left  on  the  way 
to  Fleet  Street  and  to  the  right  on  the  return  jour- 
ney. St.  Clement  Danes  is  still  somewhat  of  a  fash- 
ionable church,  though  one  hardly  knows  why.  It 
was  built  by  Christopher  Wren,  and  Dr.  Johnson 
was  one  of  her  pew-holders,  but  essentially  it  differs 
little  from  St.  Mary's,  a  hundred  yards  distant. 
Both  are  gray-white  and  both  have  the  aspect  subtly 
typical  of  London  churches.  You  simply  could  not 
imagine  them  elsewhere.  Yet  every  now  and  again 
you  read  of  a  fashionable  wedding  in  St.  Clement 
Danes,  but  in  St.  Mary  le  Strand,  I  have  never 
seen   anyone   on   week   days   except   charwomen    at 


St.  Clement  Danes  Church.     Erected  by  Sir  Christopher 

Wren 


TRAFALGAR    SQUARE 


work.  A  tablet  to  Dr.  Johnson  in  St.  Clement's 
records  various  of  his  virtues,  and  among  those 
buried  there  are  Thomas  Otway,  Joe  Miller  and,  so 
it  is  said,  Harold  Harefoot,  sprung  from  the  loins 
of  King  Canute.  To  the  west  of  the  church  is  a 
statue  of  Gladstone  by  Hamo  Thornycroft  and  to 
the  east  one  of  Johnson  by  Percy  Fitzgerald. 

Clement's  Inn,  on  the  left  of  St.  Mary  le  Strand, 
is  merely  a  vast  new  building  of  offices  and  "  resi- 
dential chambers,"  and  were  Master  Shallow  or 
Falstaff  to  revisit  it  now  they  would  hardly  recog- 
nize in  the  present  structure  the  St.  Clement's  Inn 
of  their  roistering  days.  The  Women's  Social  and 
Political  Union  has  its  offices  here,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Pethick  Lawrence  their  rooms.  Justice  Shallow 
would  very  justly  be  surprised.  As  for  Shadaw, 
Mouldy,  Wart  and  Feeble,  those  redoubtable  re- 
cruits that  Shallow  offered  to  Falstaff  against  the 
wars,  the  Fabian  Society,  now  housed  in  the  self 
same  Inn,  has  taught  them  Socialism  and  made  them 
men.  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw's  voice  rises  ever  like  a 
fountain  on  their  behalf,  and  nothing  can  stay  their 
regeneration. 

A  number  of  streets,  Surrey,  Norfolk,  Arundel 
and  Essex  run  down  to  the  south  of  the  Strand  and 
all  of  them,  in  their  names,  commemorate  houses  of 
noblemen  that  once  stood  on  their  sites.  They  have, 
too,  a  variety  of  literary  associations.  But  for  the 
most    part,    they    are   now    filled    with   buildings    of 

[33] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

offices  and  have  nothing  alluring  to  exhibit.  Essex 
Street,  however,  not  being  open  to  wheeled  traffic, 
still  preserves  an  eighteenth-century  atmosphere. 
Two  or  three  publishers  have  their  offices  here  and 
the  Essex  Head  is  the  sole  flagrant  representative 
of  modernity.  But  even  the  Essex  Head  stands  on 
the  spot  of  "  Sam's,"  an  evening  club  founded  by 
Dr.  Johnson,  where  the  fine  for  non-appearance  was 
two  pence.  "  Sam,"  like  Button,  was  a  former 
servant  of  his  chief  patron.  Of  course,  even  be- 
yond that  Essex  Street,  like  most  London  streets, 
has  a  history,  if  one  had  the  space  to  trace  it  out. 
When  the  Earl  of  Essex  was  Queen  Elizabeth's  fa- 
vorite he  lived  at  Essex  House,  which  before  that 
had  been  called  Leicester  House,  when  Leicester  had 
lived  there.  Queen  Bess,  however,  was  a  dangerous 
lady-love  to  have.  When  Essex  fell  out  of  her 
graces,  he  fell,  so  to  speak,  into  jail.  ,  He  resisted 
arrest  (February,  1601)  and  Her  Majesty  had  some 
artillery  drawn  up  in  front  of  his  house.  That 
argument  proved  irresistible  and  his  lordship  gave 
himself  up  and  was  lodged  in  the  Tower. 

The  day  before  these  words  were  written  I  looked 
into  Essex  Street.  Darkness  was  already  falling 
and  lights  were  blinking  here  and  there  and  making 
bright  the  windows  of  the  Essex  Head.  A  boy  of 
ten  was  endeavoring  to  control  a  huge  barrel  organ 
down  the  sloping  street,  and  finally  brought  it  to  a 
triumphant    pause    before    the    illumined    windows. 

[34] 


TRAFALGAR    SQUARE 


His  sister,  a  girl  of  perhaps  fourteen,  began  to  sing 
in  a  sweet  childish  treble  to  the  tune  of  the  organ, 
and  the  mother  of  the  two  children  stood  mournfully 
looking  on.  Elizabeth,  her  favorite,  her  cannon, 
were  not  half  so  real  as  this  little  English  family  of 
poor  people  grinding  tunes  out  of  the  organ. 


[35] 


IV 


A   WALK   IN   PALL,   MALL   AND 
PICCADILLY 

I. 

THE  natural  way  would  doubtless  be  to  continue 
from  the  Strand  into  Fleet  Street  and  then  on 
into  the  heart  of  the  "City."  But  to  the 
visitor  the  name  of  Piccadilly,  though  by  no  means 
so  rich  in  literary  association  as  Fleet  Street,  is 
second  in  importance  only  to  the  Strand  —  though 
perhaps  I  am  reversing  the  order.  The  two  to- 
gether make  the  visitor's  London,  and  many  an 
otherwise  unimpeachable  tourist  has  probably  never 
stirred  much  beyond  those  two  thoroughfares,  un- 
less you  count  Pall  Mall.  And  though  Pall  Mall 
must  be  counted,  I  cannot  pretend  enthusiasm  re- 
garding it.  Were  it  not  for  St.  James's  Palace,  it 
would  be  positively  gloomy.  About  Pall  Mall  the 
most  remarkable  thing  is  its  name.  It  seems  a 
rather  silly  name  (derived  from  paille  maille,  a  game 
resembling  croquet)  and  yet  it  is  associated  in  one's 
mind  with  grandeur.  Thackeray  is  responsible  for 
that,  not  a  doubt.     He  always  expected  a  scribbler 

[36] 


PALL  MALL  AND  PICCADILLY 

to  leave  a  duke's  arm  in  Pall  Mall  to  come  and  speak 
to  a  fellow  scribbler,  and  ironically  noted  the  fre- 
quency of  the  occurrence.  That  tradition  of  gran- 
deur, however,  is  slowly  perishing  in  Pall  Mall,  and 
to-day  you  can  distinguish  neither  scribbler  nor 
duke,  for  both  are  members  of  the  new  Royal  Auto- 
mobile Club.  But  the  odds  are  that  the  author  will 
take  a  taxi  and  the  duke  will  walk;  so  you  may  be 
able  to  tell  in  that  way. 

Nevertheless,  Thackeray  had  reason  for  his  im- 
plication. For  if  such  tenants  as  Charles  II,  Nell 
Gwynne,  and  Sarah  Jennings,  Duchess  of  Marl- 
borough, will  not  make  a  street  grand,  who  will? 
And  to-day  it  is  still  filled  with  palaces  —  Marl- 
borough House,  the  Automobile  Club,  the  Carlton, 
Reform,  Athenaeum  Clubs  —  palaces  every  one  of 
them.  But  of  Marlborough  House  you  see  very  lit- 
tle in  Pall  Mall,  and  clubs,  though  the  word  has 
come  to  denote  sociability,  give  the  street  its  chill 
effect  of  isolation. 

Much  sentimentality  and  rhapsodizing  have  been 
indulged  in  concerning  clubs.  London  is  the  home 
of  them,  and  Pall  Mall  and  St.  James's  Street,  at 
right  angles,  form  together  the  home  within  the 
home  of  the  club.  A  club,  we  are  accustomed  to 
think,  is  a  kind  of  paradise,  more  than  a  home,  a 
men's  heaven,  and  so  on.  But  we  know  very  well 
now  that  neither  the  best  nor  the  wisest  of  mankind 
spend  the  bulk  of  their  time  in  clubs.     The  idle,  well- 

[37] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

dressed  males  you  see  in  the  windows  do  not  impress 
you  as  the  leaders  of  the  nation,  and  particularly 
pitiful  must  be  the  case  of  the  man  who  relies  upon 
club  society  for  his  mental  diversion.  In  few  places 
can  one  be  so  lonely  as  in  one  of  these  phalanster- 
ies, and  now  and  then  you  hear  legends  of  a  rule 
of  silence.  Vain  legend  and  futile  rule !  You  have 
but  to  pass  along  the  fronts  of  these  Pall  Mall 
temples,  and  all  desire  for  speech  is  hushed  within 
you.  Upon  the  broad,  thickly  carpeted  staircase 
of  one  of  them,  it  suddenly  struck  me  on  a  certain 
evening,  what  a  noble  thing  it  would  be  to  shout! 
I  suppose  the  roof  would  have  fallen.  But  I  lacked 
the  courage,  and  the  members  present  were  saved. 
Of  course,  there  are  clubs  and  clubs.  But  those  in 
Pall  Mall  are  mostly  of  the  first  order,  hoary  with 
tradition,  the  Guards'  Club  (Number  70)  dating 
back  to  1813  and  the  Travellers'  (Number  106)  to 
1819. 

The  Carlton  and  the  Junior  Carlton  (Numbers 
94  and  30,  respectively)  are  the  very  sanctuaries  of 
conservatism,  and  one  expects  an  atmosphere  of 
silence  about  them.  There  is  a  theory  that  con- 
servative programmes  are  generally  organized  at 
the  Carlton  and  that  liberalism  is  equally  active  at 
the  Reform  Club  (102).  Perhaps  that  accounts 
for  the  dense  air  of  mystery  overhanging  these  clubs, 
politicians  being  notoriously  secretive,  and  seldom 
saving  anything.     The  Marlborough  Club,  at  52,  of 

[33] 


PALL   MALL   AND   PICCADILLY 

which  the  Prince  of  Wales  is  a  member,  as  well  as 
the  Army  and  Navy  (86)  and  the  United  Service 
(116)  are  other  conservative  strongholds,  though, 
of  course,  there  is  no  political  creed  subscribed  to. 
The  Greek  frieze  round  the  walls  of  the  Athenaeum 
(107)  speaks  for  itself,  stamping  the  club  as  a 
haunt  of  learning.  Nearly  every  bishop  is  said  to 
be  a  member  of  it,  but  it  is  by  no  means  confined 
to  bishops.  Nevertheless  Theodore  Hook  was  wont 
to  order  his  brandy  there  by  the  name  of  tea  so  as 
not  to  shock  the  divines,  and  Thackeray,  who  was 
constantly  given  to  making  fun  of  clubs  and  their 
members,  passed  every  afternoon  of  the  last  week  of 
his  life  within  the  walls  of  the  Reform  Club. 

Compared  to  these,  the  Royal  Automobile  Club 
(86)  is  a  mere  parvenu,  as  its  name  would  imply. 
Yet,  as  its  name  would  also  imply,  it  is  the  most 
luxurious  of  them  all.  Members  of  the  others,  no 
doubt,  look  askance  upon  the  Persian  pomp  of  this, 
the  greatest  (largest)  club  in  the  world  —  so  called 
by  members  who  have  not  seen  certain  of  the  clubs 
in  New  York  and  Chicago.  And  it  certainly  is  a 
vast  structure,  not  unlike  a  great  American  hotel, 
possessing  all  things  that  an  automobilist  could 
want,  even  to  a  Turkish  bath.  It  puts  into  the 
shade  everything  on  either  side  of  it,  including 
Marlborough  House  and  St.  James's  Palace. 

Time  was,  when  Nell  Gwynne,  who  lived  at  Num- 
ber 79,  could  converse  across  the  garden  wall  with 

[39] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

her  amiable  patron,  Charles  II;  and  later  the 
Duchess  of  Marlborough  spoke  of  her  "  neighbor 
George "  at  the  palace,  whom  she  quite  over- 
shadowed, and  my  lord  Duke  of  Marlborough, 
grown  avaricious  and  imbecile  in  his  old  age,  used 
to  totter  home  alone  rather  than  spend  sixpence  for 
a  sedan  chair.  That  was  dangerous,  for  Pall  Mall 
was  then  a  kind  of  citified  country  lane.  A  thief, 
who  snatched  a  silver  tankard  from  the  window  of 
Dr.  Sydenham,  was  lost  "  among  the  bushes  in  Bond 
Street,"  and  even  in  Walpole's  day  a  mail  coach  was 
robbed  there  at  eight  o'clock  one  evening.  Now 
you  might  as  well  look  for  the  Golden  Fleece  at  the 
Guards'  Club  or  for  Homer  at  the  Athenaeum  as 
for  bushes  in  Bond  Street  or  in  Pall  Mall.  For  a 
long  time,  however,  Pall  Mall  continued  "  shady  " 
(I  mean  with  trees),  and  Astley,  the  painter,  who 
acquired  Nos.  81  and  82  about  1760,  built  him  a 
studio  on  the  roof  and  called  it  his  country  house. 
In  the  west  wing  of  this  house  Gainsborough  died  in 
1788,  and  there  is  a  story  that  he  sent  for  Joshua 
Reynolds,  and,  upon  his  arrival,  exclaimed,  "  We 
are  all  going  to  heaven,  and  Van  Dyke  is  of  our 
number ! "  and  expired  immediately  after  this  an- 
nouncement. 

Dodsley,  the  publisher  of  "  Tristram  Shandy," 
had  a  shop  in  Pall  Mall  ("  Tully's  Head"),  though 
there  is  uncertainty  about  the  number.  In  any 
case,  Pope  and  Burke  and  Chesterfield  were  among 

[40] 


Copyright  by  Slirto-Travel  Co. 


Piccadilly  Circus 


PALL  MALL  AND  PICCADILLY 

his  patrons,  and  Johnson,  Garrick  and  Goldsmith 
met  there  one  winter  evening  in  1749  to  discuss  The 
Rambler,  a  new  publication.  Among  other  literary 
associations  of  Pall  Mall  are  Lockhart's  house, 
number  25,  where  Sir  Walter  Scott  visited  him  in 
1826-27. 

Marlborough  House  was  built  by  Christopher 
Wren  no  earlier  than  1710,  but  St.  James's  has 
been  in  existence  "  from  time  immemorial."  That 
phrase  means  one  thing  in  Rome  or  Jerusalem,  and 
quite  another  in  London.  In  any  case,  St.  James's 
had  long  been  a  hospital  for  "  leprous  virgins,"  of 
all  things,  when  Henry  VIII  saw  and  coveted  the  site 
for  a  palace,  which  he  promptly  ordered  built,  and 
there  he  dwelt  for  a  brief  space  with  Anne  Boleyn. 

In  1817  Marlborough  House  was  bought  by  the 
Crown  and  of  late  has  been  the  official  residence  of 
the  Prince  of  Wales,  though  at  the  moment  it  is 
the  home  of  the  Dowager  Queen  Alexandra.  St. 
James's  Palace  is  no  longer  the  residence  of  the 
King,  though  now  and  then  a  levee  is  still  held  there. 
It  is  chiefly  tenanted  by  court  officials,  and  to  pass- 
ers its  ceremony  of  guard-mounting  affords  a  daily 
spectacle. 

ii. 

St.  James's  Street  is  a  brighter  thoroughfare 
than  Pall  Mall,  but  it  too  is  under  the  dominance 
of  clubs.     With  the  exception  of  a  few  in  Piccadilly, 

[4i] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

the  clubs  that  are  not  in  Pall  Mall  are  in  St.  James's. 
In  the  eighteenth  century  there  was  here  a  coffee- 
house of  the  same  name  more  lively  than  a  dozen 
modern  clubs,  and  Addison  gives  a  vivid  description 
of  it  in  "  The  Spectator."  The  fate  of  nations  was 
daily  disposed  of  by  the  talkative  gentlemen  over 
their  coffee,  before  the  days  when  a  disturbing,  pain- 
ful silence  was  the  best  of  good  form.  There  was 
also  a  Thatched  House  Tavern,  dating,  perhaps,  to 
the  days  when  the  leper  hospital  was  yet  untouched. 
Later,  however,  Tudor  maids  of  honor  ran  across 
from  the  palace  to  the  tavern  on  private  business  of 
their  own,  and  in  the  seventeen-hundreds,  Johnson, 
Swift  and  other  wits  gathered  here  for  various  pur- 
poses of  sociability.  But  the  clubs  have  done  away 
with  all  that,  though  some  of  them  extend  far  into 
the   eighteenth   century   themselves. 

White's  (No.  37),  the  one  with  the  bow  window 
long  familiar  to  readers  of  fiction,  is  said  to  have 
records  perfect  from  the  year  1736.  And  Crock- 
ford's,  at  No.  50,  where  now  stands  the  Devonshire 
Club  (totally  harmless)  was  even  too  well  known. 
Many  a  man  lost  all  he  possessed  at  its  gaming 
tables.  At  Brooks's  (No-.  60)  Fox  would  spend 
night  after  night  with  Wilkes,  Fitzpatrick,  Sheri- 
dan and  other  boon  companions  drinking  and  play- 
ing heavily,  and  in  the  morning  he  would  refresh 
his  mind  somewhere  among  the  trees  with  a  pocket 
Horace.     Gibbon,   the   fat   historian  of  Rome,  was 

[42] 


PALL  MALL  AND  PICCADILLY 

also  a  member  here,  and  at  No.  74,  where  now  stands 
the  Conservative  Club,  he  ultimately  died  (January 
16,  1794).  And  the  Marquis  of  Steyne,  it  will  be 
recalled,  was  said  to  have  won  his  marquisate  from 
Fox  at  the  gaming  table.  Though  associated  with 
the  names  of  the  nation's  great,  these  clubs  are  not 
necessarily  connected  with  its  greatness.  There  are 
others  of  these  monasteries  in  the  street,  some  more 
colorless,  some  less,  but  I  for  one  cannot  grow  senti- 
mental about  them. 

St.  James's  Place,  running  off  (though  not  very 
far)  to  the  left  as  you  face  Piccadilly,  is  a  little 
aristocratic  backwater  not  without  literary  associa- 
tions. It  was  at  No.  22  that  Samuel  Rogers,  the 
banker-poet,  gave  his  famous  literary  breakfasts  for 
so  many  years,  owing  to  a  combination  of  gifts 
which  enabled  him  to  afford  both  the  poetry  and  the 
breakfasts ;  and  Byron  once  lived  there,  though  it 
was  at  No.  8  St.  James's  Street  that  he  "  woke  up 
to  find  himself  famous."  And  I  suppose  one  ought 
at  least  to  mention  Cleveland  Row  and  Stafford 
House,  the  Duke  of  Sutherland's  great  cream- 
colored  town  house  (now  sold),  perhaps  the  finest 
residence  in  London.  Queen  Victoria  once  remarked 
to  the  Duchess,  whom  she  was  honoring  with  her 
presence : 

"  I  come  from  my  house  to  your  palace  "-*-  a 
royal  prerogative  of  speech,  no  doubt,  for  Bucking- 
ham Palace  does  not  look  like  a  house. 

[43] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 


Baedeker,  I  see,  calls  all  the  clubs  in  Pall  Mall 
"  palatial,"  and  they  are  palatial.  But  except  for 
the  frieze  of  the  Athenaeum  or  the  more  showy 
Renaissance  style  of  the  Automobile,  you  can  barely 
remember  the  appearance  of  any  of  them  once  you 
have  turned  away  from  it.  The  truth  is,  the 
"  palatial  "  style  does  not  show  off  well  in  London. 
For  Italian  palaces  you  need  an  Italian  sun ;  Lon- 
don requires  heavier  forms  of  architecture,  such  as 
the  Law  Courts  or  St.  Paul's  Cathedral. 

Opposite  St.  James's  Place  is  King  Street,  leading 
to  St.  James's  Square,  one  of  the  most  decorous  of 
all  the  London  squares.  At  the  time  of  the  late 
King  Edward's  funeral,  I  remember  seeing  royal 
carriages,  with  the  scarlet  royal  livery  of  the  coach- 
men, moving  about  its  rectangular  street,  and 
guards  were  patrolling  in  front  of  certain  of  the 
houses  as  though  the  square  were  an  adjunct  of  the 
Palace  — -  which  indeed  it  was.  Certain  royal 
guests  were  lodged  there,  and  ever  since  it  came  into 
being,  in  the  seventeenth  century,  it  has  been  a 
"  nest  of  nobles."  The  Duke  of  Norfolk  still  has 
his  town  house  there  (at  No.  31)  and  George  III 
was  born  there  (also  at  No.  31,  though  not  in  the 
present  house).  Lord  Castlcreagh  lived  at  No.  18, 
and  the  Chesterfield  of  the  Letters  was  born  next 
door,  at  London  House,  now  the  unoccupied  home 
of  the  Bishops  of  London.  Of  No.  10,  where  Pitt, 
Derby    and    Gladstone    had    lived,    I    have    already; 

[44] 


PALL  MALL  AND  PICCADILLY 


spoken.  Every  house  there  has  a  history,  if  one 
had  the  space  to  trace  it  out,  and  so  has  every  one 
of  the  little   streets  in  the  neighborhood. 

King  Street  itself  has  Christie's,  that  famous  auc- 
tion-room of  great  pictures,  great  furniture,  plate, 
and  all  the  things  I  shall  never  buy,  and  in  Bury 
Street  once  lodged  Swift,  Steele,  Moore  and  Crabbe. 
Burke  had  rooms  at  67  Duke  Street,  and  who  that 
has  seen  an  English  play  or  read  English  novels  has 
not  been  admitted  to  bachelor  chambers  in  Jermyn 
Street?  The  fictitious  bachelor  population  of  that 
rather  shabby  thoroughfare  must  number  in  the  tens 
of  thousands.  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  that  truly  use- 
ful celibate,  actually  did  lodge  there,  and  so  did 
Marlborough.  It  still  has  one  or  two  comfortable 
hotels. 

It  is  necessary,  I  suppose,  to  glance  at  Carlton 
House  Terrace,  not  for  any  present  distinction,  but 
for  the  sake  of  that  sainted  monarch,  George  IV,  who 
dwelt  here  at  Carlton  House  during  the  Regency. 
That  house  is  now  perished  from  the  map,  and  the 
portico  of  pillars  in  front  of  it,  that  supported  noth- 
ing, as  now,  some  of  them,  said  to  be  serving  a  use- 
ful purpose  at  the  National  Gallery.  There  was  a 
rhyme   current   about  these   columns: 

"  Dear  little  columns,  all  in  a  row 
What  do  you  do  there? 
Indeed,  we  don't  know." 

[45] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

Waterloo  Place,  with  its  monument  to  officers  and 
soldiers  of  the  Crimean  War,  fills  the  space  of  Carl- 
ton House  and  that  monument  is  one  of  the  most  im- 
pressive in  London.  Someone  has  made  the  dis- 
covery that  though  London  squares  often  increase 
rents,  London  statues  do  not  diminish  them  —  and 
that  is  surprising.  One  would  expect  a  discount  of 
ten  per  cent,  for  facing,  say,  the  statue  of  George 
III  in  Pall  Mall,  and  perhaps  the  White  Star  Com- 
pany, whose  offices  are  opposite,  profits  thereby, 
though  I  have  not  seen  its  lease.  It  was  at  Carlton 
House  that  Mr.  Brummel  saw  so  much  of  his  "  fat 
friend,"  George  IV,  and  from  Carlton  House  that 
the  Beau  was  finally  sent  home  drunk  by  the  Prince, 
who  never  forgave  the  idle  word ;  and  at  Carlton 
House  it  was  that  the  Regent  gave  parties  for  his 
wife's  ladies-in-waiting  to  which  she  herself  was  not 
invited.  In  short,  the  First  Gentleman  in  Europe 
knew  the  royal  road  to  fame,  and  Carlton  House 
Terrace  saw  his  "  palmiest  "  days.  To-day  a  few 
millionaires  live  there  in  splendid  isolation,  and  Sir 
Gilbert  Parker  and  Mr.  Waldorf  Astor  opposite 
even  contrive  to  practice  literature  there  in  their 
garrets. 

m. 

By  way  of  the  Haymarket  we  may  now  go  to 
Piccadilly  Circus  and  proceed  onward  to  Apsley 
House  and  the  Pillars  of  Hercules.     But  the  Hay- 

[46] 


PALL  MALL   AND   PICCADILLY 


market  itself  is  by  no  means  to  be  despised.  The 
Carlton  Hotel  has  now  brought  the  magnificence  of 
Carlton  House  and  the  Regent  within  reach  of  all 
of  us,  and  its  palm-room  and  dining  rooms,  doubt- 
less exceed  the  Regent's  splendor.  His  Majesty's 
Theater  adjoining,  now  managed  by  Sir  Herbert 
Beerbohm  Tree,  was  opened  for  business  in  1705 
with  Sir  John  Vanbrugh  and  Congreve  as  its  first 
managers,  so  that  its  history  is  not  a  thing  of  yes- 
terday. And  the  Haymarket  Theater  across  the 
way  is  little  less  venerable,  since  it  was  opened  in 
1720,  and  Henry  Fielding,  the  novelist,  managed  a 
company  there  which  he  humorously  called  "  the 
Great  Mogul's  Troupe,  recently  dropped  from  the 
clouds."  Addison,  the  great  Addison,  once  lived  in 
the  Haymarket  and  there  wrote  a  sad  long  poem 
called  "The  Campaign."  Yet,  until  1830,  the 
Haymarket  was  legally  a  place  set  aside  for  the 
hay   trade ! 

The  name  of  Piccadilly  is  so  striking  that  peo- 
ple have  endeavored  to  establish  accurately  its 
origin.  The  hem  about  the  skirt  of  a  garment  was 
called  a  "  pickadil,"  and  guesses  have  been  made 
as  to  the  application.  Piccadilly  Hall,  a  resort  of 
gambling  and  entertainment  in  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, stood  at  the  northeast  corner  of  the  Hay- 
market, and  the  first  mention  of  the  name  is  in  a 
will  dated  April  14,  1623.  The  original  Piccadilly 
ran  no  further  than  from  the  Haymarket  to  Sack- 

£47] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

ville  Street.  From  Sackville  to  Albemarle  it  was 
called  Portugal  Street  in  honor  of  Catherine  of 
Braganza,  Charles  IPs  neglected  queen.  Beyond 
Albemarle  Street  it  was  simply  a  road.  As  late  as 
1711  the  town  of  London  extended  no  farther  west 
than  Devonshire  House;  New  Bond  Street  was  still 
an  open  field,  and  Oxford  Street  was  a  wild  bit  of 
road  infested  by  cut-throats !  But  by  1791  Picca- 
dilly was  already  a  crowded  thoroughfare  resembling 
its  present  descendant,  for  that  year  Horace  Wal- 
pole  writes :  "  I  have  twice  been  going  to  stop  my 
coach  in  Piccadilly,  thinking  there  was  a  mob,  and  it 
was  only  nymphs  and  swains  sauntering."  Nymphs 
there  are  sauntering  still,  often  regrettably  late  at 
night,  unescorted  by  any  swains.  It  has  become 
chiefly,  almost  wholly,  a  street  of  shops,  and  Devon- 
shire House  may  be  said  to  be  its  first  private  resi- 
dence. 

Piccadilly  is  one  of  the  romantic  streets  of  the 
world,  and  Piccadilly  Circus  is,  I  believe,  one  of  the 
spots  where  if  you  stand  long  enough  you  may  meet 
everyone  you  ever  knew.  I  have  never  stood  there 
long  enough,  for  it  prompts  anything  but  idleness,' 
but  again  and  again,  of  an  evening,  as  I  turned  down 
Coventry  Street  toward  Leicester  Square  I  have 
thought  myself  in  Broadway.  The  electric  light  is 
an  impersonal  thing,  but  it  would  seem  that  only  the 
Anglo-Saxon  races  use  it  lavishly  for  advertising 
purposes.     The  illuminated  signs  of  this  region  and 

[48] 


PALL  MALL  AND  PICCADILLY 

of  Broadway  in  New  York,  seem  to  stamp  the  two 
nations  as  kindred  in  blood. 

Walking  eastward  from  the  Circus  you  come  into 
Leicester  Square  and  the  region  of  the  music-halls 
that  I  cannot  recommend.  They  are  good  variety 
theaters,  but  I  have  always  objected  to  spending 
long  hours  in  the  smoke  of  other  people  to  the  detri- 
ment of  eyes  and  temper.  I  know  I  could  do  without 
music-halls  on  a  desert  island. 

Westward,  in  Piccadilly  proper,  there  are  only 
shops  and  shops  and  more  shops.  Of  landmarks 
there  are  none,  unless  you  count  No.  23,  where  once 
(in  1805)  resided  Lady  Hamilton,  so  dear  to  Lord 
Nelson.  Hardship  and  want  came  upon  her  after 
the  hero's  death,  and  all  that  was  respectable,  as  is 
the  way  of  rigid  respectability,  shrank  away  from 
her,  so  that  in  1813  we  find  her  in  prison  for  debt. 
A  certain  Alderman,  Joshua  Jonathan  Smith,  had 
her  released  and  she  fled  to  Calais,  where  she  died  in 
great  poverty.  Where  once  stood  St.  James's  Hall, 
is  now  the  new  Piccadilly  Hotel,  and  St.  James's 
Church  is  the  one  reminder  that  Piccadilly  was  not 
always  as  to-day.  Christopher  Wren  regarded  this 
as  one  of  his  best  churches,  and  it  is  indeed  very 
handsome.  It  was  consecrated  July  13,  1681,  and 
there  it  stands  defying  commerce,  a  tranquil  spot 
in  the  whirl  of  traffic.  The  hurry  of  Piccadilly  is 
almost  as  the  hurry  of  Broadway,  and  hardly  an  eye 
turns  to  the  little  old  church.     It  has  a  font  and 

[49] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 


other  work  by  the  wood-sculptor  Grinling  Gibbons, 
and  under  its  floor  lie  buried  such  leisurely,  peaceful 
people  as  Cotton,  friend  of  Izaak  Walton,  the  Com- 
pleat  Angler,  Van  der  Velde,  the  painter,  Dr.  Ar- 
buthnot  the  wit,  or  the  friend  of  wits,  to  say  nothing 
of  Dodsley,  the  book-seller. 

Farther,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  is  the 
Albany,  where  young  men  of  taste  and  fashion 
lodged  about  a  century  ago.  Lewis,  the  now  for- 
gotten celebrity,  author  of  "  The  Monk,"  occupied 
No  IA.  Canning,  Byron,  Lytton,  Macaulay,  Dis- 
raeli, all  passed  through  this  monastery  on  their 
pilgrimage,  and  even  Gladstone  was  for  a  time  a 
resident.  Outwardly  the  Albany,  set  back  from  the 
street,  is  to-day  much  as  it  was  a  hundred  years 
ago,  still  very  trim  and  distinguished. 

Of  Burlington  House,  near  by,  much  might  be 
written  —  even  prior  to  its  becoming  the  home  of 
the  Royal  Academy.  When  Richard  Boyle,  Earl  of 
Burlington,  built  it,  in  1718,  he  virtually  startled 
the  town,  and  Pope  rhymed  about  the  house  and 
Swift  dined  there.  To-day  it  is  the  home  of  the 
Royal  Society  and  other  learned  bodies  whose  quar- 
ters are  provided  free  by  the  Government  since  its 
purchase  of  the  house  in  1854.  And,  of  course,  there 
is  the  Royal  Academy,  with  its  monstrous  summer 
exhibition  of  four  thousand  pictures  which  it  is 
customary  in  England  to  laugh  at.  But  rather  are 
those    acres    of  painted   canvas   a   cause   for   tears, 

[50] 


PALL  MALL  AND  PICCADILLY 

when  one  reflects  how  rare  is  merit  under  the  sun. 
But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  no  good  things  ever 
find  their  way  to  the  Royal  Academy.  Every  win- 
ter there  is  a  loan  exhibition  of  old  masters  that  is 
truly  a  delight,  and  every  year  the  Royal  Academy 
has  a  dinner,  at  which  the  Prime  Minister  may  be 
present,  and  some  very  complimentary  remarks  are 
exchanged  between  the  Academicians  and  the  Pre- 
mier. So  that  altogether  there  is  much  cheerfulness 
and  good  feeling;  and  if  any  reader  should  find 
himself  unhappy  here  among  the  fresh  paintings 
in  June  or  July,  let  him  think  of  these  other  consol- 
ing facts.  Moreover,  the  Diploma  Gallery,  where 
hang  the  pictures  that  make  painters  into  Acade- 
micians, contains  a  cartoon  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci 
that  is  alone  worth  coming  for.  It  represents  the 
Madonna  and  Child,  St.  Anne  and  St.  John,  origi- 
nally painted  for  the  Church  Dell'  Annunziata  of 
Florence.  There  are  one  or  two  other  good  things 
here,  not  to  mention  the  sitters'  chair  that  once  be- 
longed to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 

Behind  the  Royal  Academy,  in  Burlington  Gar- 
dens, is  a  building  that  now  belongs  to  the  Civil 
Service  Commission,  and  every  time  I  pass  it  I 
shudder.  Evidently  examinations  are  conducted 
there,  for  young  men  with  sternly  set  faces  and  pre- 
occupied, tortured  expression,  are  repeating  over  to 
themselves  the  knowledge  that  these  examinations 
demand.     Every   government   clerk   in   England,   I 

[5i] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

suppose,  can  parse  iEschylus  and  repeat  the  names 
of  the  Egyptian  Kings,  to  say  nothing  of  more 
fantastic  knowledge.  Only  the  morning  when  this 
is  being  written  a  newspaper  prints  a  set  of  ques- 
tions recently  set  to  English  schoolboys :  —  "  Why 
is  the  Red  Sea  red  ? "  "  Why  does  a  bad  egg 
smell?"  "Why  does  a  kettle  sing?"  "What 
causes  echo?"  "Where  does  the  wind  go  to?" 
"Why  does  water  freeze  on  the  surface?"  "Why 
does  hot  water  crack  a  thick  tumbler?  "  "  Why  is 
red  light  used  in  photography  ?  "  "  What  causes 
fog?  "  All  this  is  one  question,  and  I  have  omitted 
a  part  of  it.  That  is  the  sort  of  thing  those  young 
men  in  Burlington  Gardens  are  thinking  about,  and 
you  cannot  but  sympathize  with  them. 

Savile  Row,  into  which  you  may  turn,  is  filled 
with  tailoring  establishments,  and  is  a  wholly  insig- 
nificant passage-way,  yet  Grote,  the  historian,  lived 
and  died  (1871)  at  No.  12;  at  No.  14  lived  Sheridan 
and  at  No.  17  he  died  in  penury  —  poor  "  Sherry," 
the  wit  whom  every  contemporary  courted,  who 
had  had  "  the  world  at  his  feet  " —  when  under  his 
feet  was  the  place  for  it! 

And  now  we  have  strayed  from  Piccadilly,  so  that 
to  come  back  we  must  pass  either  through  Bond 
Street,  which  is  to  court  disaster,  or  through  Bur- 
lington Arcade,  which  is  almost  as  imprudent.  Yet 
I  hardly  know  why  I  say  that,  since  I  have  never 
bought  in  Bond  Street  anything  but  cigarettes,  and 

[52] 


PALL  MALL  AND  PICCADILLY 


the  only  house  I  looked  at  was  No.  41,  where  the 
poor  Prebendary,  Laurence  Sterne,  died  in  1768. 
But  the  jewelers'  shop  windows  bloom  there  so  lux- 
uriously, that  it  is  customary  to  gloat  over  them 
and  speak  of  them  as  dearly  perilous  to  the  coveting 
eye.  But  to  many  of  us,  the  monasteries  of  Thibet 
are  not  safer  than  those  windows,  and  one  sign  of 
human  progress  is  the  increasing  indifference  to 
what  certain  lady  writers  describe  as  "  costly  bau- 


bles 


Burlington  Arcade  is  really  the  more  dangerous 
of  the  two.  The  covered  passage  casts  a  feeling 
of  intimacy  about  the  little  shop  windows  filled  with 
wearing  apparel  that  makes  them  less  resistible,  and 
I  am  ever  desiring  to  buy  another  green  ash  cane 
there.     But  even  that  longing  has  its  limits. 

Pressing  on  to  westward  (for,  Mr.  Lucas  not- 
withstanding, one  no  longer  wanders  in  London), 
we  cross  Albemarle  Street,  and  turn  on  the  left  into 
Arlington  Street  beside  the  Ritz  Hotel.  At  No.  9 
is  a  blue  tablet  commemorating  the  occupancy  of 
Charles  James  Fox,  who  seems  to  have  had  a  passion 
for  moving,  as  he  had  for  gambling  or  for  states- 
manship. He  lived  everywhere  in  this  region,  and 
where  he  didn't  live  he  visited.  The  street  was 
once  the  site  of  another  great  mansion,  Goring 
House,  but  that  was  razed  and  the  name  of  its  owner 
remains  in  the  street.  Horace  Walpole  and  his  pet 
aversion,  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  were  both 

[53] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 


residents  here  at  one  time.  Now  you  merely  see  one 
or  two  superior  lodging  houses  (the  very  essence  of 
the  London  lodging  house  is  its  "  superiority  "  over 
all  others),  a  few  taxicabs,  and  the  cabmen  thereof. 

Passing  by  the  Ritz  on  the  one  hand  and  the 
Berkeley  Hotel  nearly  facing  it  on  the  other,  we 
are  actually  in  front  of  Devonshire  House,  the  Duke 
of  Devonshire's  town  residence,  a  great  London  pal- 
ace. It  looks  not  unlike  a  New  England  school- 
house,  save  that  its  long  facade  of  brick  has  been 
blackened  by  time  and  that  the  windows  are  nearly 
always  curtained.  It  is  absolutely  plain,  and  you 
are  reminded  of  Norfolk  House  in  St.  James's 
Square,  which,  but  for  the  color  of  the  bricks, 
greatly  resembles  it.  In  short,  you  realize  that  for 
ornate  houses  you  must  look  in  Park  Lane  among 
the  diamond  merchants,  not  among  the  hereditary 
peers  of  the  realm.  Senator  Clark  would  laugh  at 
such  houses. 

Upon  the  site  of  Devonshire  House  and  that  of 
the  Berkeley  Hotel,  once  stood  the  great  house  of 
that  Lord  Clarendon  whose  name  was  Hyde,  that 
Lord  Chancellor  who  trafficked  in  offices  of  Charles 
II's  reign.  Evelyn,  the  diarist,  who  lived  in  Dover 
Street  near  at  hand,  records  his  sadness  upon  seeing 
Clarendon  House  in  process  of  demolition,  in  1683. 
Devonshire  House  was  built  in  1737  and  always 
looked  very  much  as  it  does  to-day.  It  was  famous 
in   the   days    of   Georgiana,   the   most   brilliant   of 

[54] 


PALL  MALL  AND  PICCADILLY 


Devonshire  duchesses,  who  gathered  about  her  such 
men  as  Fox,  Burke  and  Sheridan,  and  was  a  great 
force  in  the  politics  of  her  day.  Her  husband,  as 
it  happened,  cared  nothing  at  all  about  anything 
and  lived  in  a  happy  indolence  whilst  his  wife  was 
pulling  the  wires.  You  see  no  signs  of  any  such 
activity  about  Devonshire  House  to-day.  It  is  a 
somber-looking  pile,  and  the  only  thing  I  can  here 
record  of  its  nineteenth-century  history  is  that 
Dickens  and  Bulwer-Lytton  played  in  private  the- 
atricals for  charity  there  in  1851. 

Once  you  pass  Bath  House  (home  of  the  late  Sir 
Julius  Wernher,  the  "diamond  king")  you  are  in 
club-land  again.  The  Green  Park  stretches  on  your 
left  and  on  your  right  is  the  stately  Naval  and  Mil- 
itary Club  house  at  94,  once  the  home  of  Lord  Palm- 
erston,  and  beyond  it  is  that  symphony  in  brown, 
the  Junior  Naval  and  Military  Club.  Through  the 
windows  set  in  the  brown  walls,  you  see  the  copper 
color  of  the  smoking  utensils,  the  brown  of  the  fur- 
niture, the  tan  on  the  faces  of  the  young  soldiers  — 
all  is  in  the  key  of  brown.  The  Badminton  and  the 
Isthmian  follow  at  No.  100  and  105  respectively, 
and  at  106  is  the  St.  James's,  a  club  given  up  to 
diplomats.  So  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  observe 
about  four  men  dine  there  regularly  every  evening. 
London  clubs  are  plaintive  on  their  losses  of  mem- 
bership, and  it  is  no  wonder.  Exclusiveness  is  rap- 
idly going  out  of  fashion  in  these  democratic  days, 

[55] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 


but  the  scores  and  scores  of  clubs  are  still  solemnly 
ignoring  the  fact.  One  day  they  will  learn  that 
they  have  (largely)  ceased  to  exist.  The  little  yel- 
low Savile  Club  at  107,  with  its  coquettish  bay  win- 
dow, is  sacred  with  memories  of  Stevenson.  When 
Sir  Sidney  Colvin  brought  him  there,  R.  L.  S.  found 
so  many  friends  within  those  yellow  walls,  that  we 
must  hold  the  little  building  in  a  special  affection. 
They  are  talking  of  removing  elsewhere,  however, 
because  the  Park  Lane  Hotel  now  arising,  is  said  to 
desire  the  site.  The  Lyceum  Club,  dedicated  to 
independent  womanhood,  at  128,  is  preceded  at  127 
by  the  Cavalry  Club  —  surely  a  strange  juxtapo- 
sition. But  the  two  buildings,  though  adjoining, 
seem  oddly  to  ignore  each  other,  and  though  I  have 
seen  much  tobacco  smoke  through  the  windows  of 
the  Lyceum,  the  Cavalry  Club  windows  are  always 
discreetly  curtained.  Byron  passed  the  first  months 
after  his  marriage  at  No.  139,  though  I  do  not 
know  who  lives  there  now.  But  at  118  lives  Lord 
Rothschild  and  some  of  the  other  houses  in  this 
terrace  are  also  said  to  be  peopled  by  this  same 
needy  family.  It  surely  requires  the  contentment 
of  Rothschilds,  if  they  have  contentment,  to  support 
the  gloom  of  their  neighbor  at  149,  Apsley  House. 
Apsley  House  was  purchased  by  England  in  1820 
as  a  gift  to  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  the  conqueror 
of  Napoleon.  It  was  built  by  Lord  Bathurst  in 
1785,  but  why  it  is  so  depressing  it  is  impossible 

[56] 


PALL  MALL  AND  PICCADILLY 


to  say.  It  is  the  property  of  the  present  Duke 
of  Wellington,  but  for  a  year,  passing  there 
nearly  every  day,  I  have  never  observed  a  sign  of 
life  about  it.  The  equestrian  statue  of  the  Iron 
Duke,  opposite  it,  seems  to  be  bent  on  charging  the 
old  house  and  riding  it  down.  But  there  it  stands, 
a  monument  of  gloom,  the  last  thing  in  Piccadilly. 
Beyond  this  point  was  formerly  the  wilderness,  and 
later  Suburbia.  I  need  hardly  say  that  near  Hyde 
Park  Corner  is  virtually  the  beginning  of  the  town. 
Knightsbridge  leads  to  Kensington  Gore  and  the 
great  domain  of  middle-class  London,  Kensington. 
Sloane  Street  leads  from  Knightsbridge  to  Chelsea, 
and  through  the  Park  and  Park  Lane  lie  the  ways  to 
Bayswater  and  another  huge  section  of  the  London 
of  homes.  But  of  this  we  shall  speak  later.  We 
have  come  to  the  Pillars  of  Hercules ;  for  a  tavern 
of  that  name  actually  stood  where  Apsley  House 
now  stands  in  the  dim  days  when  Hyde  Park  Corner 
marked  the  beginning  of  the  jungle. 


[57] 


V. 

FLEET      STREET       AND       THE       TEMPLE 

I. 

THE  Strand  and  Fleet  Street  meet  at  Temple 
Bar,  but  Temple  Bar  itself  is  non-existent. 
It  is  a  mere  name.  The  trumpery  little 
"  griffin,"  or  dragon,  now  marking  the  spot  is  hardly 
observed.  Many  writers  and  many  readers  regret 
the  disappearance  of  the  real  Temple  Bar,  a  brick 
and  iron  gateway  that  marked  the  place  "  where 
the  freedom  of  the  City  of  London  and  the  Liberty 
of  the  City  of  Westminster  doth  part."  But,  as  is 
often  the  case  with  these  old  landmarks,  we  find  we 
are  regretting  something  that  is  best  away.  Until 
late  in  the  eighteenth  century  the  heads  of  con- 
demned men  were  still  put  upon  the  spikes  of  Temple 
Bar  until  they  dropped,  and  that  reflection  miti- 
gates one's  yearning  for  the  gate.  Dr.  Johnson, 
the  very  spirit  of  Fleet  Street  (so  runs  the  well- 
known  story),  was  together  with  Goldsmith  looking 
at  the  Poet's  Corner  in  Westminster  Abbey  and 
modestly  quoted  a  verse  from  Ovid,  that  may  be 
rendered  into  "  haply  our  own  names  may  be  min- 

[58] 


FLEET   STREET   AND   THE   TEMPLE 


gled  with  these."  As  they  came  to  Temple  Bar  on 
their  way  home,  Goldsmith's  Irish  wit  saw  a  new 
application  of  the  verse.  "  Haply,"  he  said,  glan- 
cing up  to  the  heads  on  the  gate,  "  our  own  names 
may  be  mingled  with  these."  The  gate  was  taken 
down  in  1878  as  obstructing  traffic,  and  a  man  of 
means  and  piety  has  had  it  transplanted  on  his 
private  estate  at  Waltham  Cross.  I  shall  not  go  to 
see  it. 

The  tradition  is  that  in  the  "  City  "  proper,  the 
Mayor  is  lord,  and  if  ever  the  sovereign  had  to  resort 
to  the  Cathedral  or  elsewhere  in  this  city,  the  Mayor 
aiust  first  give  his  permission.  A  herald  would 
knock  upon  the  gate  and  another  ask  for  the  de- 
sired leave,  whereupon  the  Mayor  would  hand  his 
sword  politely  to  the  sovereign,  and  have  it  gra- 
ciously returned.  What  they  would  do  now  that 
the  gate  is  gone  I  am  not  certain.  The  last  sovereign 
to  pass  through  it  with  that  ceremony  was  Queen 
Victoria,  when  in  1872  she  went  to  give  thanks  at 
St.  Paul's  for  the  recovery  of  the  Prince  of  Wales 
from  typhoid. 

The  most  interesting  spot  at  this  point,  however, 
is  not  the  griffin,  but  the  Temple.  Of  the  Law 
Courts  and  their  newness  and  their  impressive  gra}'- 
ness  I  have  already  spoken.  But  the  Temple  can- 
not be  so  lightly  dismissed.  It  is  not  merely  a 
landmark;  it  is  a  little  country  by  itself  that  has 
come  down  from  another  age,  and  the  peace  of  the 

[59] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 


centuries  lies  deeply  upon  it.  One  is  reminded  of 
a  story  by  H.  G.  Wells,  dealing  with  a  certain  green 
door  in  an  otherwise  blank  wall,  a  door  that  once 
found,  led  to  gardens  of  happiness.  But  it  was 
difficult  to  find  the  door  again,  or  at  all  events,  to  re- 
enter there,  and  you  may  pass  the  low  and  somewhat 
narrow  entrance  to  Middle  Temple  Lane  half  a  dozen 
times  in  a  day  without  observing  it.  But  should 
you  turn  your  feet  down  that  slender  passage,  you 
will  slip  into  another  century.  Often  and  often 
have  I  turned  down  that  lane  and  neither  Fleet  Street 
nor  I  was  quite  the  same  when  I  emerged.  The 
Temple  with  its  great  age  seems  to  impress  upon  you 
that  the  one  unpardonable  sin  is  to  take  yourself 
and  your  own  existence  with  undue  seriousness.  You 
measure  by  centuries  the  distance  between  the  Tem- 
plars and  Shakespeare,  between  Selden  and  Sheridan, 
between  Goldsmith  and  Thackeray.  But  the  Temple 
seems  to  say :  "  Yes,  they  have  all  been  here  —  was 
it  yesterday?  —  they  have  been  and  gone,  one  con- 
tinuous stream !  "  Like  Charles  Lamb  at  Oxford,  I 
feel  almost  of  the  Temple  whenever  I  am  in  it,  espe- 
cially called  to  the  Bar,  as  it  were,  and  admitted  ad 
eundcm. 

Nevertheless,  admission  as  a  "  Bencher "  is  not 
easy.  I  amused  myself  one  day  by  looking  up  the 
qualifications  for  that  honor,  and  discovered  that 
"  no  attorney  at  law,  solicitor,  writer  to  the  signet, 

or  clerk  in  Chancery,  parliamentary  agent,  or  agent 

[60] 


HHVHaM 


St.  Mary  le  Strand 


FLEET   STREET   AND   THE   TEMPLE 


in  any  court  original  or  appellate,  clerk  to  any  jus- 
tice of  the  peace,  or  person  acting  in  any  of  these 
capacities  " —  shall  be  admitted.  It  seems  as  though 
the  most  insuperable  obstacle  to  becoming  a  Bencher 
was  to  know  anything  about  law.  Also  a  certificate 
of  respectability  is  required,  and,  at  Lincoln's  Inn, 
the  candidate  must  give  assurance  that  he  is  "  not 
in  trade."  Nevertheless,  despite  the  restrictions, 
you  will  always  regret  when  you  visit  the  Temple  that 
you  are  not  a  Bencher. 

To  eat  your  dinners  in  that  Hall  of  the  Middle 
Temple  (for  that  is  what  being  a  Bencher  chiefly 
consists  in)  must  be  one  of  the  pleasures  of  life  — 
if  not  too  often  indulged  in.  For  though  the  win- 
dows are  a  very  handsome  Gothic  and  the  rest  of 
the  room  in  fine  Elizabethan  style  (built  in  1572), 
yet  the  long  benches  are  without  backs  and  that 
would  hardly  make  for  comfort.  All  the  same  it  is 
magnificent.  On  the  windows  the  blazoned  shields 
of  peers  who  had  been  Benchers,  the  arms  of  all 
other  Benchers  on  the  panels  of  the  wainscoting, 
give  the  place  a  dignity  that  the  English  barrister 
never  quite  gets  over.  In  the  rooms  of  ease,  behind 
the  Hall,  Turkey-carpeted,  firelit,  hang  innumerable 
pictures  in  black  and  white  of  bygone  Benchers. 
Sheridan,  Burke,  Thackeray,  you  find  them  all  there, 
and  it  must  be  a  solace  to  current  Benchers  that 
some    of   the    greatest   names    overhead   are   of   men 

who,  after  all,  failed  to  practice  law. 

[61] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

But  the  best  of  the  Temple  seems  to  me  to  be  out 
of  doors.  You  walk  in  those  old  passages  and  al- 
leys, like  Brick  Court,  Fountain  Court,  Crown  Of- 
fice Row,  Lamb  Court,  and  you  gloat  —  not  in  the 
manner  of  Kipling's  Stalky  cy  Co.,  but  with  a  deli- 
cate, ineffable  gloating  —  something  akin  to  the 
feeling  you  have  in  Addison's  Walk  at  Magdalene 
College,  Oxford.  Indeed,  there  is  here  much  of  the 
air  of  an  ancient  seat  of  learning  —  and  something 
more.  Brick  Court,  particularly,  seems  to  focus 
memories  of  certain  names  that  are  dear  to  all  of 
us.  To  begin  with  there  is  that  Temple  fountain, 
where  Ruth  Pinch  so  sentimentally  met  John  West- 
lock.  But  the  memories  extend  considerably  farther 
back.  In  that  Hall  Shakespeare's  "  Twelfth 
Night  "  was  produced,  February  2,  1602,  while  the 
author  was  yet  alive  and  in  London.  There  is  every 
reason  to  believe  he  was  personally  present  at  that 
performance.  And  at  No.  2  Brick  Court  Goldsmith 
had  rooms  from  1765  until  his  death,  in  1794.  It 
v.  as  here  he  wrote  the  "  Deserted  Village,"  "  The 
Traveller,"  and,  in  his  "  Animated  Nature,"  described 
the  treeful  of  rooks  upon  which  his  windows  opened. 
Even  now  the  clamor  of  birds  here  is  so  loud  and 
joyous  that  you  see  at  once  this  is  an  hereditary 
stronghold  of  theirs,  where  for  centuries  they  have 
dwelt  without  fear  or  reproach.  Thackeray  touches 
upon    these     facts    in    his    "  English    Humorists," 

though  he  himself  had  rooms  in  the  Inner  Temple, 

[62] 


FLEET    STREET    AND    THE   TEMPLE 


at  10  Crown  Office  Row.  At  No.  2  of  the  same  Row 
Charles  Lamb  saw  such  light  as  was  here  on  Febru- 
ary 10th,  1775.  And  when  it  comes  to  lawyers,  the 
Middle  Temple  is  rich  in  alumni  of  great  fame,  such 
as  Clarendon,  Somers,  Blackstone,  and  Eldon,  while 
the  Inner  Temple  can  claim  no  less  than  Coke,  Lyt- 
tleton  and  Thurlow. 

The  line  of  division  between  the  two  is  not  ap- 
parent to  the  visitor.  Inner  and  Middle  Temples 
form  one  domain,  hidden  away  from  Fleet  Street,  as 
it  seems,  and  approachable  by  the  narrowest  of 
gates,  but  standing  broad  and  massive  as  you  go 
down  toward  the  Thames  Embankment.  The  Outer 
Temple,  the  westernmost  of  the  original  three,  no 
longer  exists.  Once  the  tilt-yard  of  the  Knights 
Templars,  it  now  supports  office  buildings. 

The  Temple  Church,  within  the  precincts  of  the 
Inner  Temple,  is  shared  by  both  of  them.  They 
have  always  so  shared  it,  for  that  church  existed 
long  before  there  were  any  lawyers  in  it.  It  was 
consecrated  in  1185  by  Heraclius,  the  Patriarch  of 
Jerusalem,  who  happened  to  be  in  England  at  the 
time,  begging  money  for  his  Patriarchate.  Consid- 
erable restoration  has  befallen  that  church  since 
1185,  but  it  is  still  beautiful.  The  Norman  effigies 
—  what  is  left  of  them  —  are  fenced  off  and  ticketed 
and  labeled ;  one  is  said  by  the  verger  to  be  the  Earl 
of  Pembroke,  first  owner  of  the  Temple  after  the 
Templars  left  it,  and  the  others  are  called  his  sons. 

[63] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 


The  Earl,  as  it  happens,  sleeps  in  the  Abbey  —  and 
it  doesn't  matter.  Outside  in  the  little  church- 
yard, a  remnant  of  it  unenclosed,  is  the  tomb  of 
Oliver  Goldsmith,  which  is  more  important  and 
more  touching  than  a  dozen  Earls  of  Pembroke. 
The  verger  sells  you  picture-postcards  (Temples 
seem  to  come  to  that),  tells  you  that  the  organ  is  one 
of  the  best  in  England,  and  shows  you  which  side 
is  occupied  by  Inner  and  which  by  Middle  Templars. 
It  is  all  irrelevant.  You  cannot  help  seeing  with 
your  mind's  eye  the  long  procession  of  the  worship- 
ers, the  original  Templars,  with  their  white  mantles, 
their  coats  of  mail,  their  brown  faces  baked  by  ori- 
ental suns, —  fierce  and  warlike  monks,  who  believed 
that  the  way  to  serve  God  was  to  kill  as  many  as 
possible  of  His  creatures  in  Asia  Minor ;  and,  coming 
after  them,  the  black-robed  lawyers,  eminently  men 
of  peace,  given  only  to  bloodless  contention,  clerics 
at  first,  that  is  men  who  could  read  and  write,  but 
growing  more  and  more  in  learning,  until  there  ap- 
peared such  men  as  Selden,  Milton's  "  learned  Sel- 
den,"  and  Burke  and  the  modern  Chancellors ! 

A  word  about  the  Templars  is  in  place  in 
connection  with  their  former  home.  Their  order, 
founded  by  Baldwin,  King  of  Jerusalem,  early  in 
the  Twelfth  Century,  was  not  confined  to  England. 
It  existed  in  almost  every  country  in  Europe.  Their 
first  London  home  was  at  the  Holborn  end  of  Chan- 
cery Lane.     But  being  rich  they  bought  in  1184  the 

[64] 


FLEET    STREET    AND    THE   TEMPLE 

land  of  the  present  Temple,  built  the  church  and 
their  houses  and  made  themselves  generally  comfort- 
able. They  fought  hard  in  the  Holy  Land,  were 
often  defeated  and  cut  to  pieces  by  the  Saracens, 
and  yet  they  seem  to  have  been  everywhere  unpopu- 
lar. They  were  always  quarreling  with  the  more  or 
less  rival  order  of  the  Hospitallers  —  the  Knights 
of  St.  John.  Gradually  they  brought  with  them 
many  Eastern  practices  and  were  accused  of  sorcery, 
heresy,  of  "  worshiping  a  cat,"  and  so  on.  In  1307, 
Edward  II  finally  seized  the  Temple,  suppressed 
the  order,  and  gave  their  home  to  Aymer  de  Valence, 
his  cousin,  Earl  of  Pembroke.  Soon  thereafter  the 
Hospitallers  got  the  property  by  a  papal  decree, 
on  the  condition  that  they  put  it  not  to  "  profane 
uses,"  and  promptly  rented  it  to  the  lawyers  —  a 
compliment  the  lawyers  of  to-day  would  doubtless 
prize.  There,  however,  they  have  been  ever  since. 
At  the  outset  they  met  their  clients  for  consultation 
in  the  Round  Church ;  now  they  meet  them,  if  at  all, 
in  electric  lighted  chambers  and  offices.  But  in  es- 
sence they  are  the  same  lawyers. 

I  have  said  nothing  about  the  Inner  Temple  Hall, 
because  that  is  comparatively  new  and  unimportant. 
I  have  said  nothing  about  much  else  that  is  here,  the 
sundials,  the  greenery,  the  slices  of  garden.  It  is 
useless  to  describe  every  object  separately,  because 
that  would  only  tend  to  confuse.  The  one  thing  I 
should  like  to  convey,  no  matter  how  unobtrusively, 

[65] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 


is  the  eighteenth  century  picture  of  busy  tran- 
quillity or  of  tranquil  occupation,  as  you  will ;  of 
the  strange  air  of  peace  in  the  very  echo  of  Fleet 
Street's  noise,  of  the  genuine  beauty  that  envelops 
the  place,  independent  even  of  the  many  memorials 
that  must  appeal  to  the  most  indifferent ;  in  short, 
of  the  true  enchantment  of  this  spot  that  lies  amid 
the  grime  of  London.  The  Temple  to-day  is  al- 
most precisely  as  Lamb  described  it  nearly  a  hundred 
years  ago.  We  glory  in  progress  and  swear  by  the 
"  ringing  grooves  of  change."  Yet  how  we  relish 
a  piece  of  permanence  like  this ! 

From  the  Temple  it  is  both  natural  and  easy  to 
stroll  up  Chancery  Lane,  which  nearly  faces  it,  in 
order  to  glance  at  Lincoln's  Inn.  This  Inn  has  a 
considerable  claim  upon  one's  interest,  for  Sir 
Thomas  More,  Lord  Shaftesbury,  Oliver  Cromwell, 
William  Pitt,  Canning,  Disraeli  and  Gladstone  are 
upon  its  roll  of  one-time  members.  Before  you 
reach  it,  however,  you  cannot  but  be  impressed  by 
this  anomaly ;  they  think  nothing  in  London  of  tuck- 
ing away  in  the  narrowest  of  alleys  the  most 
imposing  of  buildings.  In  France  or  America  no 
one  would  think  of  making  such  an  institution  as 
the  New  Record  Office,  on  the  right,  open  into  a 
passage  like  Chancery  Lane.  But  here  no  one  seems 
to  care  in  the  least.  The  spirit  seems  to  be, —  Put 
up  the  building,  and  we  shall  squeeze  into  it  any- 
how.    That  may  be  one  aspect  of  the  famous  Eng- 

[66] 


FLEET   STREET   AND    THE   TEMPLE 


lish  doctrine  of  "  muddling  through  somehow," 
which  has  only  recently  begun  to  break  down,  but 
which  is  still  amazingly  successful.  Of  course  there 
is  a  reason,  a  kind  of  noumenon,  as  Coleridge  would 
have  said,  behind  the  phenomenon.  Once  upon  a 
time  this  was  the  site  of  Rolls  Yard  and  the  Master 
of  the  Rolls  held  his  court  here.  Here  also  stood 
the  Rolls  chapel  upon  the  site  of  the  Domus  Conver- 
sorum,  the  Domus  that  Henry  III  erected  in  1223 
as  a  sort  of  Prytaneum  for  converted  Jews.  About 
a  century  and  a  half  later  Edward  III  gave  the 
House  and  the  Chapel  to  the  Master  of  the  Rolls. 
For  some  five  hundred  years  thereafter  every  Master 
of  the  Rolls  was  also  "  Keeper  of  the  House  for 
Converted  Jews,"  an  institution  extinct  as  the  griffin 
on  Temple  Bar.  Five  hundred  years !  Then  a 
curious  thing  happened.  A  member  of  the  well- 
known  Anglo-Jewish  family  of  Jessel  was  appointed 
Master  of  the  Rolls  in  1873.  It  seemed  a  good 
time  to  shear  away  the  office  with  the  absurd  title 
of  "  Keeper  of  the  House,"  etc.,  which  has  had  no 
existence  during  all  those  centuries,  and  accordingly 
the  office  was  shorn.  That  is  the  way  customs  die 
in  England.  And,  as  a  recent  American  comic  op- 
era has  it,  the  worst  of  it  is,  we  like  it! 

They  keep  state  papers  in  the  record  office,  in- 
cluding documents  to  a  very  early  period  of  English 
History.  And  in  the  Record  Office  Museum  you 
can   see   some  very   interesting  things,   such  as   the 

[67] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 


Domesday  Book,  the  very  original  survey  ordered 
by  William  the  Conqueror  in  1086.  I  should  not, 
however,  advise  anyone  to  try  to  read  a  few  pages 
as  he  runs,  for  the  script  is  difficult  and  the  language 
not  the  French  of  Paris.  The  other  day  an  English 
boy  in  an  examination  paper  said  that  the  Domes- 
day Book  was  "  Paradise  Lost,"  but  that  can  be  dis- 
proved at  the  Record  Office.  Here  may  also  be 
found  Nelson's  Log  of  the  "  Victory,"  describing 
the  battle  of  Trafalgar;  one  of  the  few  documents 
in  existence  bearing  Shakespeare's  signature  (it  dif- 
fers from  Bacon's),  a  petition  to  George  III  from 
the  Continental  Congress,  dated  1775,  and  a  letter 
from  George  Washington  to  the  same  unwise  mon- 
arch, dated  1795.  Facing  the  Record  Office  is  the 
front  of  the  Incorporated  Law  Society,  another  fine 
building,  and  on  that  same  side  is  the  entrance  to 
Lincoln's  Inn. 

The  gateway  leading  to  the  Inn  from  Chancery 
Lane  is  another  of  those  doors  opening  into  a  little 
world  of  beauty  peculiar  to  London.  This  was  the 
gate  upon  which  Ben  Jonson  is  supposed  to  have 
worked  as  a  bricklayer.  But  as  Jonson  was  born  in 
1573  and  the  gate  built  in  1518,  that  would  seem 
to  dispose  of  the  legend.  Here  too  you  find  beauty 
and  peace  and  dignity,  but  it  is  not  the  Temple. 
The  Temple  is  still  alive  and  busy  with  coming  and 
going,  a  sort  of  unbroken  procession  from  medi- 
aeval davs.     But  in  the  grave  enclosures  of  Lincoln's 

res] 


FLEET   STREET   AND   THE   TEMPLE 


Inn  you  scarcely  see  a  living  soul  from  one  hour  to 
another.  The  last  time  I  was  there  a  policeman 
was  the  only  occupant  of  New  Square,  that  long 
grass  plot  that  has  been  some  four  centuries  green. 
Here  too  is  a  beautiful  chapel,  built  by  Inigo  Jones 
in  16^3,  but  it  has  no  glamour  of  crusaders  about  it. 
In  short,  despite  the  great  names  upon  its  rolls,  it 
seems  remote  and  detached  from  the  Temple,  and  I 
am  not  aware  that  many  ancient  customs  survive 
there.  In  the  Temple  during  term  time  a  servant 
of  the  Middle  Temple  stands  in  Essex  Court  at  about 
twenty  minutes  to  six  and  winds  a  horn.  In  olden 
times  the  object  was  to  announce  that  the  dinner 
hour  was  approaching  and  to  call  the  students  back 
from  the  other  side  of  the  river,  or  wherever  they 
might  be.  The  Templars  have  long  ceased  to  go 
across,  but   still  the  picturesque  custom  persists. 

In  the  same  manner,  the  curfew  bell  still  rings 
every  evening  at  nine  o'clock  in  Gray's  Inn,  which 
is  a  little  beyond  the  Holborn  end  of  Chancery  Lane, 
another  school  of  law  that  has  been  in  existence 
since  1371.  Gray's  Inn  takes  one  into  Holborn, 
a  considerable  distance  away  from  Fleet  Street,  but 
it  should  not  be  overlooked.  Together  with  Staple 
Inn,  an  inn  of  Chancery,  it  forms  one  of  the  oldest 
bits  of  London  in  existence,  for  the  great  London 
Fire  spared  this  region.  Besides,  Lord  Bacon  was 
a  member  of  Gray's,  and  Goldsmith,  Southey  and 
Macaulay  were  other  residents. 

[69] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 


Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  the  huge  square  that  lies  to 
the  west  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  if  you  approach  it  from 
Chancery  Lane,  contains  a  variety  of  landmarks. 
Newcastle  House,  at  No.  67,  once  the  residence  of 
the  Duke  of  Newcastle,  George  II's  Prime  Minister, 
is  still  worth  seeing,  but  No.  55,  once  a  home  of 
Tennyson,  is  now  demolished.  On  the  south  side  is 
the  Royal  College  of  Surgeons  with  a  great  museum 
that  must  be  of  interest  to  doctors,  and  which  I 
have  not  visited.  But  Sir  John  Soane's  Museum 
on  the  northern  side  is  well  worth  a  visit.  It  is  the 
only  museum  in  my  experience  where  the  personal 
card  of  the  visitor  is  demanded,  but  even  for  that 
you  are  amply  repaid.  There  is  to  be  found  a  fa- 
mous Canaletto  picture  of  the  Grand  Canal  and  the 
series  of  Hogarths,  alone  worth  coming  for,  the 
"  Election  "  and  the  "  Rake's  Progress  " —  to  say 
nothing  of  an  excellent  Watteau.  Those  Hogarths 
make  the  museum,  which  after  all,  was  only  Sir 
John's  private  residence.  For  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields 
was  once  a  nest  of  fashion.  Sir  John  built  the 
Bank  of  England  and  left  a  good  many  sketches  of 
his  own  work,  not  to  speak  of  much  other  bric-a- 
brac,  but  he  has  left  nothing  better  than  the  "  Rake's 
Progress." 

ii. 

Returning  to  Fleet  Street  along  Chancery  Lane, 
we  come  upon  the  passage  leading  to  Clifford's  Inn, 

[7o] 


FLEET    STREET    AND    THE    TEMPLE 

and  do  not  enter  there.  The  passage  and  the  arch 
are  quite  enough  to  see,  for  the  old  inn  is  fallen 
into  decay  and  is  now  being  offered  for  sale  by  a 
real  estate  agent  whose  sign  is  the  most  conspicuous 
landmark  of  that  preserve.  And  only  the  pious  an- 
gler, perhaps,  will  visit  St.  Dunstan's-in-the-Wcst, 
the  church  that  contains  a  memorial  window  to 
Izaak  Walton,  one  time  warden  of  the  church  that 
stood  upon  the  site,  where  the  present  one  was  built 
in  1882.  Outside  in  one  of  the  walls  is  a  statue 
of  Queen  Elizabeth,  removed  from  Lud  Gate,  an 
effigy  which  does  Her  Majesty's  charms  little  credit. 

Across  the  way  there  is  still  a  Mitre  Court  leading 
to  a  Mitre  Tavern,  supposed  to  be  on  the  site  of 
that  other  Mitre,  where  the  indefatigable  Boswcll 
met  his  hero,  Dr.  Johnson,  early  in  their  acquaint- 
ance, by  an  appointment  which  mightily  flattered 
and  puffed  the  Scotchman.  Indeed,  Mr.  Boswcll 
told  the  Doctor  as  much. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,"  cried  Johnson,  "  I  have 
taken  a  liking  to  you !  " —  the  pleasantest  words 
that  fell  upon  BoswelPs  ears.  They  finished  a  bot- 
tle of  port  each  at  that  particular  seance  and  parted 
warmly  between  one  and  two  of  the  clock  in  the 
morning,  Johnson  trudging  to  his  rooms  at  No.  1 
Inner  Temple  Lane.  It  was  only  one  of  many  meet- 
ings at  the  Mitre  and  Boswcll  rapidly  became  an 
intimate,  and  Goldsmith,  as  well  as  others,  was  often 
present;  and  on  one  famous  occasion,  when  Boswcll 

[7i] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

earnestly  boasted  of  Scotch  scener}7,  Johnson 
roundly  informed  him  that  "  the  noblest  prospect 
which  a  Scotchman  ever  sees  is  the  high  road  that 
leads  him  to  England."  Those  many  sessions  in 
the  Tavern  did  not  tend  to  prolong  life.  Johnson 
himself,  to  be  sure,  lived  to  a  good  old  age  (seventy- 
five),  but  poor  Goldsmith  was  only  forty-six  when 
he  died.  And  the  other  day,  passing  by  No.  102 
Great  Russell  Street,  I  observed  a  tablet  to  the 
memory  of  Topham  Beauclerk,  a  young  sprig  of 
fashion,  fond  of  Dr.  Johnson's  society,  who  was 
only  forty-one  when  he  died.  Beauclerk's  sister, 
Lady  Diana,  as  the  same  tablet  indicates,  lived  to 
the  age  of  seventy-four.  Presumably  she  was  not 
involved  in  the  Johnsonian   frolics. 

The  forceful  mind  of  Johnson  must  have  dwelt 
in  a  forceful  body,  though  from  the  statue  in  the 
rear  of  St.  Clement  Danes  one  would  hardly  suppose 
so.  Nevertheless,  wherever  he  was,  there  also  was 
the  throne  of  English  letters  in  his  time.  I  have 
often  amused  myself  by  a  quest  for  readers  of  "  Ras- 
selas."  I  have  never  read  it  through  myself  and  I 
am  persuaded  that  no  one  has  —  excepting  perhaps 
a  few  university  extension  lecturers.  And  who  has 
ever  waded  through  the  "  Rambler  Essays  "?  As  to 
the  Dictionary,  no  one  but  Buckle,  the  historian  of 
civilization,  could  have  perused  it.  Buckle  had  a 
penchant  for  dictionaries.  Yet  the  shrines  of  John- 
son in  the  region  of  Fleet  Street  seem  to  overshadow 

[72] 


FLEET   STREET   AND   THE   TEMPLE 

everything  else.  If  you  care  to  make  your  way 
through  Fetter  Lane,  by  many  narrow  and  circuitous 
passages,  into  an  oblong  yard  filled  with  printing 
shops  and  called  Gough  Square,  you  will  find  a  Geor- 
gian house  of  red  brick,  still  intact,  with  a  tablet 
commemorating  Johnson's  residence.  In  Bolt  Court 
he  also  resided,  and  the  Cheshire  Cheese  in  Wine  Of- 
fice Court,  subsists  upon  his  memory.  Nothing 
indicates  that  Goldsmith  once  lived,  and,  it  is  said, 
wrote  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  at  No.  6  of  this 
Court  (it  is  near  145  Fleet  Street),  but  Johnson's 
Chair  at  the  Cheshire  Cheese,  or  what  passes  for  his 
chair,  is  enclosed  in  a  glass  case,  and  to  prove  its 
authenticity,  a  copy  of  the  great  dictionary  (first 
edition)  lies  spread  open  upon  it. 

That  Cheshire  Cheese,  by  the  way,  is  a  resort 
maintained  by  tourists.  It  claims  a  continuous  ex- 
istence since,  I  believe,  1675,  and  to  this  day  the 
floors  are  sanded  as  of  old.  To  this  day  they  serve 
every  Tuesday,  Thursday  and  Saturday,  a  pie  made 
of  steak,  oysters,  larks  and  kidney.  On  the  off 
days,  if  you  chance  to  pass  the  open  door  of  the 
kitchen,  you  may  see  dozens  of  little  bodies  that  pur- 
port to  be  larks,  lying  ready  for  the  morrow  —  and 
yet  all  touristry  throngs  there  to  eat  that  pie ! 

The  street  abounds  in  memorials,  and  despite  its 
bustle  and  teeming  newspaper  offices,  still  has  the 
air  of  the  eighteenth  century  about  it.  It  seems 
impossible  to  dwell  upon  all  the  landmarks,  literary 

[73] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 


and  otherwise.  I  see  I  have  passed  over  the  Kit-Kat 
Club,  that  was  wont  to  meet  at  Jacob  Tonson's,  the 
bookseller's,  in  Shire  Lane,  a  thoroughfare  long 
since  obliterated,  and  now  covered  by  the  Law 
Courts.  How  often  had  Sir  Richard  Steele,  star 
contributor  to  "  The  Spectator,"  not  drunk  himself 
under  the  table  at  the  Kit-Kat  dinners !  It  used  to 
be  a  complaint  of  the  members  that  it  needed  so  much 
wine  to  wake  Addison  up,  that  Dick  Steele  was  drunk 
long  before  that  awakening. 

Tonsori  had  a  taste  for  noble  lords  and  their  so- 
ciety and  the  Duke  of  Kingston  one  day  vowed  that 
"  egad,  he  knew  of  a  lady  who  was  beautiful,  and 
brilliant  and  witty  enough  to  warrant  her  admission 
to  the  club."  That  was  all  well  enough,  said  his 
fellow  members,  but  they  could  say  nothing  until 
they  saw  the  lady.  "  Gad,  it  should  be  done,"  cried 
the  Duke,  and  despatched  a  messenger  to  his  house, 
ordering  that  Lady  Mary  be  dressed  becomingly  and 
brought  to  him  out  of  hand.  And  Lady  Mary, 
in  future  known  as  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu, 
was  accordingly  brought.  She  was  seven  years  old 
then,  and  she  sat  in  all  her  finery  upon  her  father's 
knee  and  entertained  the  gentlemen  of  the  Kit-Kat 
with  retort  and  repartee  that  were  perhaps  less 
stinging  than  at  times  after  she  was  grown.  But 
the  grim  walls  of  the  Law  Courts  tell  no  tales  of 
the  Kit-Kat,  though  there  remains  many  a  tale  to 
tell. 

[74] 


FLEET    STREET   AND    THE   TEMPLE 


Nor  have  I  spoken  of  Serjeant's  Inn,  just  above 
the  Temple  where  those  picturesque  pleaders  the  Ser- 
jeants, or  fratres  servientes,  as  the  Knights  Tem- 
plars called  their  servitors  (imagine  Serjeant  Buz- 
fuz  cleaning  a  coat  of  mail!),  had  their  home.  The 
only  memorial  I  found  there  is  one  to  Walter  Delane, 
the  great  editor  of  the  Times. 

Bouverie  Street,  rumbling  with  Lord  Northcliffe's 
printing  presses,  and  adorned  by  the  offices  of  Punch, 
has  already  been  mentioned,  and  so  has  Tudor 
Street,  and  that  particular  riparian  region  that  in 
King  James's  day  was  Alsatia,  a  sort  of  city  of  ref- 
uge for  debtors,  rogues  and  criminals  of  every  sort. 

And  surely  no  one  should  pass  that  brief  avenue 
called  St.  Bride's,  without  turning  into  it  and  en- 
tering the  church  of  the  same  name.  The  church  is 
hemmed  in  by  ignoble  buildings  so  that  from  Fleet 
Street  you  see  almost  nothing  but  the  tower  —  a 
tower  well  worth  seeing.  It  is  one  of  Sir  Christo- 
pher Wren's  best.  The  present  edifice  was  built  in 
1680,  but  as  early  as  1235  a  church  of  the  name 
already  existed  on  the  spot,  for  we  learn  that  in 
that  year  one  Thomas  de  Hall,  after  slaying  one 
Thomas  de  Battle,  fled  for  sanctuary  to  St.  Bride's. 
It  must  have  been  that  church  that  was  burned  in 
the  great  fire  after  the  plague.  Milton  once  lived  in 
a  house  that  stood  in  the  churchyard  and  Wynkyn 
de  Wordc,  the  printer  of  the  beautiful  name,  second 
only    to    Caxton,    and    publisher    of    the    "  Golden 

[75] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

Legend,"  lies  buried  here ;  and  in  the  central  aisle 
within  is  the  grave  of  the  author  of  "  Pamela  "  and 
"  Clarissa  Harlow."  And  if  I  say  nothing  of  the 
Fleet  prison,  which  stood  just  beside  Ludgate  Circus, 
where  now  stands  Memorial  Hall,  in  Farringdon 
Street,  it  is  because  Dickens  has  made  that  common 
property. 


[76] 


VI 

from  st.  paul's  to  charter- 
house 

ONE  of  the  most  absorbing  rambles  in  London 
may  be  taken  in  something  under  three  hours. 
It  begins  at  Blackfriars  Bridge  and  ends  at 
Gray's  Inn.  That  sounds  like  a  Zigzag  Journey 
once  dear  to  certain  writers  for  children,  yet  it  is 
highly  plausible,  even  logical,  to  say  nothing  of  its 
charm.  A  part  of  the  secret  is  that  it  includes  St. 
Paul's  Cathedral.  That  is  a  "  sight  "  which  occu- 
pies ten  pages  of  Baedeker,  but  it  is  astonishing  how 
little  you  are  disposed  to  linger  over  it!  Nothing 
could  induce  me  to  say  how  little  time  I  have  spent 
there  all  told,  though  I  have  often  looked  at  it  in 
passing,  and  that  is  another  secret,  though  an  open 
one.  Outside  it  is  perhaps  the  most  truly  "  Lon- 
donish "  of  buildings.  Within  it  is  terrifying  by 
its  emptiness. 

But  to  begin  at  the  beginning:  You  take  the 
Underground  to  Blackfrairs  (Shakespeare  and  Ben 
Jonson  once  lived  in  this  region),  and  walk  to  the 
left  from  Queen  Victoria  Street,  past  the  Times  of- 
fice and  Printing  House  Square  into  Carter  Lane, 

[77] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 


not  without  pausing  at  Bell  Yard  to  see  another  odd 
stone  in  the  base  of  Shakespeare's  fame.  A  marble 
tablet  here  tells  you  that  in  this  place  resided  one 
Thomas  Quiney,  who  wrote  the  only  extant  letter  to 
Shakespeare  in  1598. 

Mr.  Quiney  little  knew  that  he  was  achieving  im- 
mortality by  that  one  insignificant  letter.  A  whole 
network  of  narrow  lanes  covers  this  region,  one  of 
the  oldest  in  London.  But  commerce  and  industry 
have  invaded  it  to  such  an  extent,  that  it  is  not  now 
attractive. 

Past  the  Choir  House  and  Deanery  of  St.  Paul's 
you  walk  and  past  the  site  of  Doctors  Commons,  on 
the  right,  of  which  I  suppose  the  Bishop  of  Lon- 
don's marriage  rcgistr}7  office  is  still  a  reminder,  and 
you  are  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard  —  that  is  in  the 
street  which  is  so  called.  The  old  coffee  houses 
that  once  drew  the  eternal  coffee-house  patrons,  Dr. 
Johnson,  Goldsmith  et  al.  (what  nerves  they  must 
have  had!)  are  now  vanished.  Mostly  the  church- 
yard is  occupied  by  drapers,  wholesale  and  retail. 

The  outside  of  St.  Paul's  is  magnificent.  It  is  as 
English  as  the  Bank  of  England,  and  that  is  high 
praise.  It  is  vast  and  gray  and  grim,  yet  with  a 
beauty  that  is  marred  neither  bjr  the  grayness  nor 
the  grimness.  Rather  is  it  enhanced  by  them.  The 
broad  low  steps,  the  great  blackened  columns,  the 
doves  fluttering  forever  about  them,  give  it  the  ef- 
fect of  a  fine  pagan  temple,  and,  indeed,  legend  says 

[78] 


ST.    PAUL'S    TO    CHARTERHOUSE 


that  a  temple  of  Diana  once  stood  upon  the  site. 
The  two  short  towers  somewhat  destroy  that  effect, 
still  the  entire  gray  facade  and  the  great  dome  make 
St.  Paul's  a  landmark  of  the  world.  Queen  Anne's 
statue  before  it  is  a  typical  English  statue,  but  it  is 
scarcely   perceived. 

Once  you  enter  the  doors,  however,  a  change  comes 
over  the  spirit  of  your  vision.  You  have  an  irresist- 
ible feeling  that  you  have  come  on  the  wrong  day, 
cleaning  da}',  perhaps,  or  moving  day,  when  all  ex- 
cept the  benches  had  already  been  taken  out.  In  a 
kind  of  despair  you  look  about  the  walls  seeking  and 
finding  not.  If  3-011  have  the  disadvantage  of  having 
seen  the  churches  of  Italy  you  are  inclined  to  flee 
from  this  strange  atmosphere  that  suggests  what 
you  will  but  religion.  St.  Peter's  in  Rome,  with  its 
booths  of  confessionals  in  all  tongues,  and  the  long 
fishing  rods  of  bamboo  with  which  the  devout  are 
touched  after  a  genuflexion  and  a  prayer  by  some 
unseen  human  mechanism  wielding  the  rod,  is  suffi- 
ciently suggestive  of  the  market  place.  But  St. 
Paul's  has  not  even  these  diversions  to  attract  the 
eye.  At  the  angle  of  the  South  aisle  and  transept  is 
a  ticket  office  where  an  usher  in  black  sells  tickets 
for  the  crypt,  the  library,  the  galleries. 

Dutifully  you  begin  to  wander  about  in  search 
of  monuments  and  your  eye  falls  upon  Lord  Leigh- 
ton's  in  the  north  aisle,  which  is  truly  beautiful. 
Others  attract  you  by  their  names  if  not  by  their 

[79] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 


merit,  as  General  Gordon's,  just  beyond.  You  also 
come  across  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  and  a  number  of 
admirals  and  soldiers  like  Rodney,  the  generals  and 
Admiral  Napier,  and  Ponsonby  of  Waterloo.  Wel- 
lington and  Nelson  have  notable  monuments  here 
and  tombs  in  the  crypt  below.  In  the  South  aisle 
are  pictures  by  Watts  and  Holman  Hunt,  including 
"  The  Light  of  the  World."  I  fear  this  is  becom- 
ing a  catalogue,  but  it  is  so  difficult  to  make  it  any- 
thing else,  and  in  any  case  it  is  not  a  long  one. 
Below,  in  the  crypt,  lies  Sir  Christopher  Wren,  him- 
self, the  builder  of  the  Cathedral,  and  those  two 
heroes,  Wellington  and  Nelson.  But  the  most  im- 
pressive thing  is  the  funeral  car  of  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington, cast  from  the  guns  he  had  taken  from  the 
enemy. 

No  one  can  gainsay  a  people  that  chooses  to  ideal- 
ize a  soldier,  and,  indeed,  the  Iron  Duke  is  something 
of  an  idol  the  world  over.  Nevertheless,  one  may 
doubt  whether  all  tastes  would  agree  that  a  church 
is  the  place  for  such  a  relic  as  the  car  —  with  its 
decorations  of  rusty  guns  and  muskets.  Happily, 
however,  it  is  not  we  who  are  called  upon  to  decide 
that.  In  the  crypt  are  also  buried  Reynolds, 
Turner,  Lawrence,  and  Millais  —  soldiers  and 
artists. 

Well,  you  say,  is  this  all?  No;  but  if  the  day  is 
fair  that  is  probably  all  you  will  linger  to  contem- 
plate.    A  few  folk  there  are  in  the  benches  seated 

[80] 


ST.   PAUL'S   TO    CHARTERHOUSE 

and  silent  (though  not  always  silent)  prajTing,  you 
think.  But  in  their  hands  are  only  guide-books. 
You  go  forth  into  the  Churchyard  once  again  and 
there  among  the  shops  you  completely  forget  the 
interior  of  St.  Paul's. 

Before  the  fire  the  Churchyard  was  the  home  of 
stationers,  and  Stationers'  Hall  is  only  a  step  away. 
Many  of  Shakespeare's  works  were  originally  pub- 
lished here  and  where  the  offices  of  the  Religious 
Tract  Society  now  are,  was  Newbury's  house,  that 
bought  Goldsmith's  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  for  sixty 
guineas,  no  less.  Dr.  Johnson  acted  as  literary 
agent  in  the  transaction  and  did  the  bargaining. 
Goldsmith  could  never  have  extracted  that  sum  for 
himself.  St.  Paul's  School,  founded  in  1512  by 
Colet,  the  friend  of  Erasmus,  is  now  gone  to  West 
Kensington.  The  "  Yard  "  is  scarcely  the  place  for 
a  school.  Still,  even  now  a  little  patch  of  green  re- 
mains on  the  northeastern  side.  I  believe  it  was 
Pierre  Loti  who  expressed  astonishment  at  the  abun- 
dance of  trees  and  flowers  in  London.  You  can  see 
a  tree  from  every  street.  It  is  the  compensation  for 
a  weeping  climate.  Of  the  old  St.  Paul's,  destroyed 
by  the  Fire  of  1666,  virtually  nothing  remains  — • 
except  in  literature. 

Through  a  narrow  lane  you  make  your  way  to 
Paternoster  Row,  to  the  north  of  the  Cathedral,  and 
find  that  many  of  the  stationers,  who  have  aban- 
doned the  churchyard  to  the  drapers,  are  harbored  in 

[81] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

the  Row.  They  don't  seem  to  sell  Paternosters,  or 
rosaries,  anywhere.  But  when  St.  Paul's  was  a 
Catholic  Church  this  was  the  great  headquarters  of 
all  manner  of  ecclesiastical  gear.  And  the  makers 
of  these  sacred  things  were,  many  of  them  by  a  kind 
of  reaction,  a  rascally  crew.  But  the  Reformation 
dispersed  them  to  other  callings,  and  about  1720  the 
booksellers  came  here  and  in  the  Chapter  Coffee 
House  (No.  50)  they  met,  traded  in  copyrights  and 
talked  shop ;  and  poor  Chatterton,  when  he  came  up 
to  London  no  doubt  drank  in  this  talk  with  eager 
ears.  In  the  following  century  (1848)  when  Smith 
&  Elder  had  accepted  for  publication  "  Jane  Eyre  " 
by  "  Currer  Bell,"  Charlotte  Bronte  and  her  sister 
came  to  London  to  see  her  publisher  and  they 
put  up  at  the  Chapter  because  she  knew  no  other 
hostelry,  and  because  its  name  sounded  canonical  and 
in  good  odor.  To-day  she  would  probably  go  to 
the  Ritz  or  Carlton,  even  though  the  Chapter  is 
there,  trafficking  in  things  stronger  than  coffee. 
One  is  hardly  surprised  to  learn  that  Johnson  and 
Goldsmith  were  also  patrons  of  the  house.  In 
Warwick  Lane  near  by,  you  may  look  upon  Amen 
Corner  and  the  Close  of  the  canons  of  St.  Paul,  a 
tiny  precinct  of  peace,  somewhat  resembling  the 
Temple,  or  you  may  omit  that  ceremony,  and  con- 
tinue through  Ivy  Lane  into  Newgate  Street. 

Of  course  Newgate  Street  is  aggressively  modern. 
'Buses,    shops    and    aerated   bread    places    wipe    out 

[82] 


ST.    PAUL'S    TO    CHARTERHOUSE 

Amen  Corners  and  Amen  Courts  as  light  of  day 
wipes  out  a  dream.  But  almost  facing  you  is 
Christ  Church,  all  that  is  left  to  remind  you  of 
Christ's  Hospital,  that  Charles  Lamb,  one  of  its. 
pupils,  has  made  forever  dear  to  us.  The  post-of- 
fice buildings  now  occupy  the  site  of  the  school 
(which  has  moved  to  Horsham)  and  indeed,  this  may 
be  called  the  country  of  the  post-office.  It  covers 
much  of  the  neighboring  territory.  At  the  corner 
of  Newgate  Street  and  Warwick  Lane,  on  the  left, 
stands  the  house  (with  a  tablet)  that  marks  the  an- 
cient dwelling-place  in  London  of  the  Earls  of  War- 
wick, including  that  Warwick  who  was  called  "  The 
King-maker."  Warwicks  make  kings  no  more, 
either  in  Newgate  Street  or  elsewhere,  and  the  site 
of  the  ancient  prison  is  now  occupied  by  a  veritable 
palace  of  Justice,  home  of  London's  criminal  courts. 
The  Old  Bailey  is  impressively  new,  but  the  judicial 
ceremonial  with  its  wigs  and  gowns  is  hoary  and 
picturesque  with  age.  Across  the  way,  opposite,  is 
the  Church  of  St.  Sepulchre's,  and  in  this  walk, 
which  I  have  taken  more  than  once,  I  invariably 
pause  at  that  point. 

There  is  something  in  the  atmosphere  of  these 
city  churches  that  is  delightful.  They  seem  to  say, 
"  We  care  very  little  for  the  patronage  of  those 
about  us,  principally  because  they  seem  to  care  lit- 
tle for  us.  But  any  reverent  stranger  is  welcome." 
You  never  see  a  human  being  in  these  churches.     Yet 

[83] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

St.  Sepulchre's  is  beautiful.  It  dates  from  the  fif- 
teenth century,  holds  the  tomb  of  Queen  Elizabeth's 
tutor,  Roger  Ascham,  and  ought  to  be  a  Mecca  for 
Americans,  because  Captain  John  Smith,  the  hus- 
band of  Pocahontas,  lies  buried  here.  As  the  in- 
scription says  (the  original  is  no  longer  legible), 
"  Here  lyes  one  conquer'd  that  hath  conquer'd 
Kings !  "  But  always  the  church  seems  empty.  It 
used  to  have  an  intimate  interest  for  the  Newgate 
prisoners.  Someone  had  left  an  endowment  that 
compelled  the  clerk,  or  bellman,  to  stand  under  the 
window  of  the  condemned  cell  at  Newgate  on  the  eve 
of  an  execution  and  to  sing  some  cheerful  verses  be- 
ginning, 

All  ye  that  in  the  condemned  hold  do  lie, 
Prepare  you  for  to-morrow  you  shall  die. 

The  prisoners  naturally  could  do  nothing  to  the 
singer  under  the  circumstances.  But  in  the  morn- 
ing, when  the  prisoner  started  for  Tyburn  on  the 
way  to  death,  St.  Sepulchre's  very  delicately  and 
charmingly  presented  him  with  a  nosegay  —  which 
sounds  a  little  better  than  the  singing.  I  dare  say 
the  prisoners  looked  their  last  upon  St.  Sepulchre's 
with  regret,  and  so  does  the  visitor  to-day.  Very 
probably  the  visitor  walks  down  Giltspur  Street 
toward  Smithfield. 

You  come  upon  Cock  Lane  a  few  steps  away,  and 
you  have  but  to  look  at  it  to  know  that  the  ghost 

[84] 


ST.    PAUL'S    TO    CHARTERHOUSE 

which  so  stirred  Dr.  Johnson  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  or  so  ago  will  not  now  trouble  you.  It  is  a 
drab  enough  little  alley,  though  it  commemorates 
another  event  of  importance.  Here,  at  what  is 
called  Pye  Corner,  the  Great  Fire  of  1666,  that  be- 
gan at  Pudding  Lane,  finally  and  miraculously 
stopped. 

Across  the  way  the  entire  street  is  occupied  partly 
by  the  post-office  yard,  but  chiefly  by  St.  Bartholo- 
mew's Hospital.  I  cannot  say  why  the  name  of  that 
hospital  thrills  me,  but  it  does.  Its  long  history 
must  have  a  share  in  the  thrill.  Few  hospitals  can 
"  point  with  pride "  to  a  life  of  eight  centuries. 
They  were  common  enough  in  mediaeval  times,  but 
not  many  have  come  down  through  the  ages  with  a 
virtually  continuous  history.  Rahere,  its  founder, 
a  prime  favorite  of  Henry  I,  must  have  endowed  it 
with  a  special  potency.  With  Guy's  and  Bedlam, 
it  shares  a  place  in  English  literature.  It  has  ro- 
mance about  it,  too ;  the  discoverer  of  the  circula- 
tion of  the  blood  was  one  of  the  teachers  in  its  med- 
ical school,  and  Dick  Whittington  was  one  of 
its  benefactors.  The  buildings  are  all  modern,  of 
the  prevailing  gray  tone,  and  its  courts  are  busy 
with  nurses,  students,  internes  and  patients.  At  the 
end  of  Giltspur  Street,  turning  to  the  right  you 
come  upon  its  gateway,  and  if  you  choose,  you  enter 
the  little  church  of  St.  Bartholomew-the-Less,  just 
within  the  gate.     That  church  is  a  little  jewel.     It  is 

[85] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

of  about  the  size  of  a  spacious  private  drawing-room, 
and  the  patients  who  worship  there  must  benefit  in 
health  from  sheer  delight  in  that  little  sanctuary. 
It  goes  without  saying  there  was  not  a  soul  inside 
it,  and  the  last  time  I  was  in  Smithfield  I  sat  down 
there  for  a  few  moments'  rest  after  a  long  walk, 
and  soon  felt  more  than  rested:  I  was  truly  re- 
freshed by  the  charm  and  the  peace  of  the  place. 

From  here  you  make  your  way  along  West  Smith- 
field  toward  St.  Bartholomew-the-Great,  no  more 
than  a  moderate  stone's-throw  distant.  How  popu- 
lar churches  must  have  been  in  the  old  days !  It  is 
wonderful,  though,  how  well  they  are  kept  up  even 
now,  empty  though  they  be.  I  always  mean  to 
advise  people  to  visit  some  of  these  distant  City 
churches  on  Sunday,  to  see  whether  they  are  any 
fuller  than  on  week-days.     But  I  always  relent. 

You    cross    the    street    known   as    Little    Britain, 

where   Benjamin   Franklin   mastered  his    craft   as   a 

printer,  and  for  the  sake  of  Franklin  I  walked  the 

length   of  it  to  Aldersgate   Street.     Useless   piety ! 

It  is  a  narrow  and  shabby  thoroughfare  given   up 

to  petty  trades  and  there  is  not  even  a  printer's  shop 

visible    to    remind   you    of    Franklin.     Near   to    the 

corner  of  this  Little  Britain  and  West  Smithfield  is 

a  tablet  to  mark  the  memory  that  on  that  spot  one 

Philpot    and   divers    others   suffered   martyrdom    by 

fire  in  the  sixteenth   century,  when  burning  at  the 

stake  for  conscience'  sake  was  so  sadly  fashionable. 

[86] 


Sentry  at  Buckingham  Palace 


ST.    PAUL'S    TO    CHARTERHOUSE 


If  such  a  tablet  existed  in  Franklin's  day,  how  that 
shrewd  and  comfortable  philosopher  must  have  re- 
flected upon  the  passage  of  time!  In  his  age 
common  sense  and  reason  were  the  high  divinities. 
Barbarities  like  burning  and  quartering  Avere  no 
longer  known.  Only  now  and  then  they  did  put  a 
head  or  two  upon  the  spikes  of  Temple  Bar.  And 
we,  the  present-day  philosophers,  rejoice  that  even 
that  unseemly  custom  has  vanished  from  amongst  us. 
Without  more  delay  we  enter  the  mean  but  ancient 
bit  of  archway  that  leads  toward  St.  Bartholomew- 
the-Great  and  find  ourselves  in  a  fragment  of  oldest 
London.  The  fraction  of  an  old,  old  graveyard  lies 
before  it  and  a  few  Elizabethan-seeming  houses 
overhang  the  graveyard  on  the  left,  while  on  the 
right  a  tavern  called  the  Coach  and  Horses,  backs 
almost  into  the  very  church.  Once  you  enter  it  you 
are  in  the  middle  ages.  Norman  pillars  are  visibly 
crumbling  and  peeling,  and  as  much  darkness  as 
possible  is  admitted  by  windows  built  in  a  time  when 
windows  were  out  of  fashion.  With  one  exception 
it  is  the  oldest  church  in  London  —  sixty  years  older 
than  the  Temple  Church.  Rahcre,  who  founded  this 
church,  as  well  as  the  hospital,  in  1123,  has  his  tomb 
here  and  so  have  Sir  Walter  Mildmay  and  divers 
other  worthies.  When  last  I  visited  the  church,  a 
service  was  in  progress  in  the  beautiful  and  spacious 
choir,  and  the  congregation  consisted  in  exactly  two 
nurses  from  the  hospital  and  one  small  girl.     It  may 

[87] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

be  mentioned  that  Franklin  when  engaged  at  his 
trade  in  Little  Britain,  lived  in  what  is  called  Bar- 
tholomew Close.  Milton  lived  there  before  him,  Ho- 
garth perhaps  later,  and  Washington  Irving  con- 
siderably later.  You  may  wander  up  Cloth  Fair, 
a  tortuous  narrow  street,  that  seems  a  remnant  of 
Elizabethan  England,  with  gabled  houses  overhang- 
ing so  that  a  plumb-line  from  the  top  would  swing 
fairly  wide  of  the  bottom.  Each  crazy  little  story 
projects  a  little  farther  forward.  There  are  no 
cloth  merchants  there  now,  for  they  are  all  about 
St.  Paul's.  There  is,  indeed,  nothing  there  now  but 
those  aged,  tottering  little  houses,  awaiting  their 
turn  to  pass  into  dust. 

And  Smithfield  itself  seems  like  a  footless  relic  of 
the  past,  devoted  to  nothing  in  particular.  It  has 
been  almost  everything,  but  now  it  is  nothing  more 
than  a  background  —  or  a  foreground  —  to  the 
great  Central  Meat  Market.  It  has  been  a  tilting 
ground  (when  it  must  have  been  called  Smooth 
Field),  a  place  of  execution,  where  both  William 
Wallace,  the  Scot,  and  Wat  Tyler,  the  revolutionist, 
met  their  death  in  the  fourteenth  century;  it  has 
been  an  open  fair  —  Bartholomew's  Fair  —  a  med- 
ley of  commerce  and  grotesque  amusement.  But 
now  it  is  dull  and  empty,  and  you  skirt  it  on  the 
northeast  to  pass  under  the  arch  of  the  meat-market 
into  Charterhouse  Street,  on  your  way  to  Thack- 
eray's "  Greyfriars,"  forever  dear  to  us. 

[88] 


ST.    PAUL'S    TO    CHARTERHOUSE 

The  boys  of  Charterhouse  must  have  been  brought 
up  in  an  aroma  of  cattle,  and  it  is  no  wonder  Thack- 
eray's Clive  Newcome  sniffed  at  "  Smiffle."  Over 
no  spotless  pavements  you  make  your  way  toward 
Charterhouse  Square  and  there  by  an  unassuming 
yellow  gate  and  porter's  lodge  you  stand  thrilling 
with  expectation.  That  is  where  the  Carthusian 
Brothers  live,  and  that  is  where  "  Cod  Colonel " 
Newcome  died  so  pathetically,  saying  "  adsum  "  when 
his  name  was  called.  Something  poignantly  sharp 
grips  your  heart,  and  perhaps  you  are  visited  by  a 
secret  hope  that,  when  your  turn  comes,  you  may  be 
allowed  to  say  adsum  in  a  place  no  less  peaceful  and 
beautiful. 

You  see  nothing  of  Brothers  or  schoolboys  when 
first  }Tou  pass  the  porter's  lodge,  under  the  Gate- 
house, into  the  entrance  court.  !A  dead  silence 
reigns  over  all.  The  intelligent  porter  gives  you 
ample  information  about  every  wall  and  court,  and 
you  are  provided  with  a  leaflet  wherewith  to  follow 
his  itinerary.  And  once  you  are  in  Chapel  Cloister 
you  see  evidences  of  some  of  that  long  distinction 
that  makes  the  fame  of  a  school. 

You  see  memorial  tablets  to  Thackeray,  to  John 
Leech,  the  artist,  and  to  Roger  Williams,  the  founder 
of  Rhode  Island,  the  latter  due  to  the  gener- 
osity of  Mr.  Oscar  Strauss,  of  New  York.  And  the 
tablet  to  John  Wesley  is  gazed  upon  with  reverence 
by  many  who  are  not  of  his  persuasion.     Long  is 

[89] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

the  list  of  distinguished  scholars  of  Charterhouse, 
and  it  includes  besides  those  above  the  names  of 
Dryden  (son  of  the  poet),  Sir  Henry  Havelock, 
George  Grote,  Crashaw  and  Blackstone,  Addison 
and  Steele.  The  walls  of  that  chapel  must  have 
seen  them  all  come  and  pass,  since  portions  of  the 
stonework  date  to  1512  and  others  to  1349. 

An  excellent  pamphlet  sold  at  the  door  accurately 
traces  the  long  history  of  the  Chapel  and  the  Char- 
terhouse. Upon  the  site  of  a  cemetery  for  victims 
of  the  plague  that  raged  in  London  in  1318-9,  Sir 
Walter  de  Manny,  a  noble  knight  and  a  chivalrous, 
built  the  chapel  where  masses  might  be  said  for  the 
souls  of  the  surrounding  dead;  and  subsequently,  in 
1371,  he  founded  a  Carthusian  monastery  for  twelve 
monks  and  a  Prior.  But  only  the  Prior's  cell  was 
ready  when  Sir  Walter  was  buried  at  the  foot  of 
the  altar  in  the  chapel,  and  Edward  Third,  John  of 
Gaunt  and  the  Black  Prince  witnessed  the  interment. 
Despite  all  that  regal  patronage,  however,  Henry 
Eighth  dissolved  it  166  years  later,  and  sent  its 
Prior  and  most  of  the  Brothers  to  the  gallows  at 
Tyburn.  It  fell  into  neglect,  even  dilapidation,  un- 
til it  was  granted  as  a  residence  to  Sir  Edward 
North.  It  changed  hands  more  or  less  rapidly 
thereafter,  became  the  property  of  the  Earl  of 
Northumberland,  once  again  of  Sir  Edward  North 
and,  finally,  of  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  who  was  sub- 
sequently     beheaded.     From     the     Duke's      family, 

[90] 


ST.    PAUL'S    TO    CHARTERHOUSE 


Thomas  Sutton,  a  wise  soldier  in  retirement,  ac- 
quired the  house  in  1611  for  £13,000  and  created 
the  retreat  for  old  gentlemen  that  it  is  to-day. 

The  Chapel  into  which  the  porter  leads  you,  is 
also  the  tomb  of  Thomas  Sutton ;  a  curiously  carved 
and  colored  effigy  of  the  bearded  captain  lies  upon 
the  sarcophagus,  and  the  face  seems  very  wise,  and, 
indeed,  what  could  be  wiser  than  such  a  foundation? 
To  keep  in  comfort  eighty  old  men  who  cannot  keep 
themselves,  the  failures  in  the  struggle  who  would 
feel  their  defeat  most  poignantly  (for  they  must 
be  "gentlemen");  and  forty  boys,  schooled, 
equipped  and  nurtured  in  readiness  for  the  self- 
same struggle.  It  is  only  in  old  countries  that  you 
find  these  choice,  idiosyncratic  benefactions.  And 
Charterhouse  is  doubtless  of  the  choicest.  One  is 
surprised  to  learn  that  Bacon  protested  against  it. 

"  For  to  design  the  Charterhouse,"  he  wrote,  "  a 
building  fit  to  be  a  Prince's  habitation,  for  an  hos- 
pital, is  as  if  one  should  give  in  alms  a  rich  em- 
broidered cloak  to  a  beggar."  But  Bacon's  moral 
character,  as  we  know,  suffered  from  other  blind- 
nesses as  well.  And  Sutton  had  his  way,  and  the 
hospital  was  founded.  They  show  you  the  Tapestry 
Room,  the  library,  and  the  Great  Hall,  where  the 
Brothers  eat  their  dinner  at  two,  according  to  an- 
cient usage.  It  is  the  only  repast  they  eat  there. 
The  other  meals  are  brought  them  to  their  "  cells," 
very  comfortable  cells,  like  college  rooms.     The  last 

[9i] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

time  I  was  there  it  was  midwinter,  and  only  two  or 
three  Brothers  in  shovel  hats  and  long  black  gowns 
were  strolling  about  the  evergreen  Pensioners'  Court. 
Theirs  seemed  an  easy  simple  life,  not  without  dig- 
nity. 

The  boys  of  that  foundation,  however,  are  no 
longer  at  Charterhouse.  The  school,  which  also 
had  provision  for  day  scholars,  grew  large  and 
populous,  and  the  authorities  in  1872  removed  it 
to  Godalming.  The  original  forty  boys  provided 
for  have  now  increased  to  ninety,  and  the  school  is 
said  to  number  over  five  hundred.  So  that  the 
benches  provided  for  them  at  the  foot  of  the 
founder's  tomb  are  no  longer  filled  by  the  foun- 
dationers —  doubtless  to  Thomas  Sutton's  regret. 
Another  school,  the  Merchant  Taylor's,  has  bought 
the  buildings,  and  there  is  still  young  life  on  the 
beheaded  Duke  of  Norfolk's  tennis  court ;  and  where 
the  old  cloisters  were  in  Carthusian  days  is  a  running 
track  with  distances  marked  off  in  white. 

But  though  the  Charterhouse  School  has  been 
prospering  at  Godalming,  the  lay  Brothers  have  not 
fared  so  well.  Their  share  of  the  £200,000  origi- 
nally supplied  by  Thomas  Sutton,  has  shrunken 
with  the  agricultural  land  values  and  only  fifty- 
seven  Brothers  are  now  maintained. 

Charterhouse  Square,  once  the  Churchyard,  is  a 
quiet  enough  circle  of  houses,  and  though  once  an 
abode  of  fashion,  now  demands  no  special  attention, 

[92] 


ST.    PAUL'S    TO    CHARTERHOUSE 

But  a  step  away,  to  the  west,  we  may  turn  into  St. 
John's  Lane,  and  see  St.  John's  Gate,  the  last  relic 
of  the  priory  of  the  Knights  of  St.  John,  as  well  as 
the  church  of  that  name,  constituting  a  part  of  the 
old  priory,  and  dating  back  to  the  twelfth  century. 
Thence  by  Clerkenwell  Road,  home  of  jewelers  and 
watchmakers,  and  Old  Street,  eastward  to  Bunhill 
Row  (Milton  once  lived  there  at  No.  125),  leading 
to  the  grimy  cemetery  of  Bunhill  Fields.  I  have  pur- 
posely kept  away  from  cemeteries  until  now,  be- 
cause I  do  not  delight  in  visiting  them.  But  Bun- 
hill Fields,  though  a  good  half  mile  away  from 
Charterhouse,  contains  the  tombs  of  two  great 
English  classic  writers,  John  Bunyan  and  Daniel 
Defoe.  Few  who  read  the  English  tongue  have  not 
read  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  and  fewer  still 
"  Robinson  Crusoe."  This  was  for  nearly  three 
centuries  the  great  Nonconformist  Cemetery,  and 
John  Wesley's  mother  is  also  buried  here.  Her 
illustrious  son  lies  just  outside  this  cemetery  in  the 
little  graveyard  of  Wesley's  Chapel,  and  his  house 
at  47  City  Road  is  now  maintained  as  a  museum. 
To  the  northwest  of  Bunhill  Fields  stretches  the 
populous  desert  of  Islington,  a  region  outside  the 
scope  of  this  book,  and  to  the  South  lies  the  teeming 
City. 

Or,  upon  leaving  Charterhouse  Square  we  may 
retrace  our  steps  toward  Smithfield,  into  Giltspur 
Street,   past   Bartholomew's   and   turn   to  the  right 

[93] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

by  the  Church  of  St.  Sepulchre,  into  the  Holborn 
Viaduct,  past  the  City  Temple  and  St.  Andrew's 
Church,  where  William  Hazlitt  was  married  with 
Charles  Lamb  as  best  man ;  past  the  vast  reddish 
brick  buildings  of  the  Prudential  Offices,  on  the  site 
of  FurnivaPs  Inn,  where  "  Pickwick  Papers  ,!l  was 
begun,  to  Brooke  Street  where  (No.  39)  poor  Chat- 
terton  killed  himself,  to  Staple  Inn  again,  upon 
which  one  cannot  look  too  much,  and  thence  to  the 
right  into  Gray's  Inn  Road  and  Gray's  Inn,  where 
the  lights  may  be  already  blinking,  and  the  great 
quadrangles  lie  empty  and  dignified,  yet  seemingly 
alive   with   their  long  and  picturesque  history. 

In  either  case,  whether  you  turn  from  Charter- 
house to  Clerkenwcll  or  to  Holborn  Viaduct,  the 
walk  takes  no  more  than  three  hours.  And  at  Chan- 
cery Lane,  when  you  emerge  from  Gray's  Inn,  is 
the  friendly  Tube. 


[94] 


VII 


THE  CITY*.       SOME  MILTON,  SHAKE- 

SPEARE       AND        DICKENS        LAND 

I. 

THE  vast  network  or  palimpsest  of  streets 
called  "  The  City  "  could  very  easily  fill  sev- 
eral volumes  in  itself.  Nothing  is  more  strik- 
ing than  the  spirit  of  hurry  and  bustle  that  charac- 
terizes its  denizens  and  the  ancient  landmarks  that 
lie  all  but  submerged  in  this  seething  modernity. 
The  sightseer  is  here  more  than  elsewhere  an  inter- 
loper, yet  here  may  be  found  some  of  the  most  inter- 
esting remnants  of  old  London,  dating  all  the  way 
back  to  the  Roman  occupation.  Gingerly  one  must 
tread  one's  way  about  these  purlieus,  and  remember 
that  only  a  very  little  of  the  accumulation  of  riches 
may  be  seen.  Also,  one  must  come  here  on  week- 
days and  be  jostled,  for  on  Sundays  this  is  a  desert 
of  stone  and  mortar,  without  charm  or  zest. 

The  sudden  transition  is  very  odd.  So  long  as 
you  are  ambling  about  the  paved  paths  of  the  little 
enclosure  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  you  are  still 
"  legitimate."     This    is    undoubtedly    the    city,    and 

[95] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

St.  Paul's  Churchyard  is  filled  with  commercial 
houses.  But  you  still  seem  legitimate.  But  walk 
a  step  into  Cheapside  and  you  appear  strange  and 
illicit,  particularly  if  you  should  have  a  guide-book 
in  your  hand.  Whatever  you  do,  do  not  pause  to 
think  that  Milton  as  a  child  played  upon  these  pave- 
ments —  or  such  pavements  as  there  were  in  his  day. 
There  is  no  time  to  think.  You  are  more  apt  to  re- 
call Heine's  cry  when  he  looked  upon  them  nearly  a 
century  ago,  "  Send  no  poet  to  London !  "  If,  how- 
ever, you  join  the  swift  procession  from  the 
top  of  Paternoster  Row  and  swing  into  Cheapside 
as  though  your  life  depended  upon  it,  or  as 
though  you  were  in  lower  Broadway,  New  York, 
you  are  correct  and  in  the  movement.  John  Gilpin, 
who  not  improbably  lived  at  the  corner  of  Pater- 
noster Row  and  Cheapside  when  he  undertook 
his  celebrated  ride,  has  set  the  pace  that  Cheapside 
and  the  streets  clustering  about  the  Bank  of  England 
maintain  to-day.  Cheapside  leads  (via  the  Poul- 
try) straight  into  the  Bank  of  England,  the  great- 
est institution  in  the  British  Isles.  And  if  you 
wish  to  form  a  rough  and  ready  notion  of  what  is 
significant  in  the  England  of  to-day,  compare  the 
atmosphere  of  St.  Paul's  at  the  bottom  of  Cheap- 
side  and  that  of  the  Bank  at  the  top  of  it.  You 
will  see  at  once  which  is  the  more  important  temple 
of  the  two.  But  that  England  is  not  alone  in  this, 
I  need  hardly  say. 

[96] 


THE    CITY 


The  last  time  I  walked,  or  rather  flew,  in  Cheap- 
side,  I  turned  swiftly  down  the  various  adjoining 
streets  and  lanes,  so  that  not  the  veriest  errand- 
boy  among  them  suspected  me  of  landmark-hunting. 
I  moved  briskly  up  Foster  Lane,  on  the  left,  to  visit 
the  Church  of  St.  Vedast,  a  Wren  product,  as 
nearly  every  London  church  should  be,  to  see  the 
place  where  the  gentle  Herrick  was  baptized  in 
1591.  St.  Vedast's,  however,  was  locked,  barred 
and  bolted,  and  by  gazing  at  its  door  I  was  remarked 
with  suspicion  by  an  errand-boy  on  a  bicycle.  I 
walked  on  to  the  Goldsmiths'  Hall,  in  the  same  lane, 
to  see  a  certain  Roman  altar  I  had  heard  of,  that 
had  been  found  when  the  foundations  for  this  Ren- 
aissance palace  were  being  dug.  The  door-keeper, 
an  imposing  official  in  gold  lace,  absorbed  in  reading 
by  a  very  comfortable  fire  in  the  front  hall,  told  me 
I  should  have  to  write  for  permission  first.  Outside 
on  the  bulletin  board  were  announcements  of  Oxford 
and  Cambridge  scholarships  to  be  given  by  the 
Goldsmiths'  Company  to  successful  competitors. 
Altogether  the  building  is  a  picture  of  opulence 
and  you  get  a  new  notion  of  why  England  has  been 
called  a  nation  of  shopkeepers.  These  old  guilds 
(and  this  one  dates  to  1327)  give  even  now  a  co- 
herency to  business  which  America  lacks.  The  Sad- 
lers'  Hall  is  near  the  corner  of  Foster  Lane  in 
Cheapside,  and  a  little  beyond  is  Wood  Street  with 
the  plane-tree  that  Wordsworth  mentions  in  "  Poor 

[97] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

Susan."  That  tree  seems  even  stranger  than  the 
sightseer  in  this  region.  Across  the  way  some  very 
ancient  and  notable  streets  run  down  southward. 

Bread  Street,  though  now  completely  commercial- 
ized, is  sacred  to  the  memory  of  Milton.  At  the 
corner  of  Bread  and  Watling  Streets  is  a  tablet 
with  a  portrait  of  Milton  in  bas-relief  commemora- 
ting the  Church  of  All  Hallows,  torn  down  in  1878, 
where  Milton  was  baptized.  A  few  steps  back,  near 
to  Cheapside,  at  what  is  now  No.  63,  Milton's  father 
carried  on  the  trade  of  a  scrivener,  and  there  the 
poet  was  born  in  1608.  A  great  wholesale  shop  of 
women's  hats  now  stands  upon  the  site.  It  is  in- 
teresting to  compare  the  knowledge  we  have  concern- 
ing those  two  poets,  Shakespeare  and  Milton. 
Shakespeare,  the  professional  actor,  followed  a  call- 
ing so  comparatively  disreputable  in  those  days  that 
not  even  his  supreme  genius  was  able  to  rescue  much 
of  his  history  from  obscurity.  We  know  almost 
nothing  about  him.  Of  Milton,  the  scholar,  born 
while  Shakespeare  was  yet  alive,  we  know  almost 
everything.  We  know  not  only  where  he  was  born, 
where  baptized,  and  where  he  lies  buried,  but  we 
know  where  he  was  married  and  remarried,  and  also 
every  one  of  his  dwelling-places. 

Back  we  go  into  Cheapside  and  again  we  are  in 
the  stream  of  traffic  that  thinks  not  upon  Milton, 
nor   yet   on   Shakespeare.     Bow    Church   alone   per- 

[98] 


•• 


THE   CITY 


haps  arrests  their  gaze,  not  because  Wren  built  it, 
or  because  it  dates  originally  to  the  beginning  of 
the  Norman  Era,  but  because  it  has  a  clock  over- 
hanging the  pavement  that  reminds  them  to  hurry. 
One  wonders  whether  this  was  not  a  happier  region 
in  Tudor  times  or  in  Stuart,  when  the  cry  of  "  Pren- 
tices and  Clubs,"  brought  out  from  the  shops  hun- 
dreds of  young  ruffians  with  bludgeons  to  uphold 
their  rights  —  ruffians  who  afterwards  grew  into 
great  city  merchants  and  Lord  Mayors,  like  Ho- 
garth's industrious  apprentice.  Pepys  recalls  one 
of  these  little  Cheapside  riots  protesting  against 
two  lads  of  the  'prentice  order  being  put  in  the  pil- 
lory, and  a  small  apprentice  of  thirteen  informing 
him  that  it  was  an  unheard  of  outrage,  and  one  re- 
calls Chaucer's  apprentice  of  Chepe: 

Out  of  the  shop  thider  would  he  lepe, 

And  til  he  had  all  the  sight  ysein, 

And  danced  wel,  he  wold  not  come  agen. 

Chepe  certainly  seems  remote  from  those  times,  or 
from  the  days  when  a  knightly  tournament  was 
held  there,  in  1330,  to  celebrate  the  birth  of  the 
Black  Prince,  or  when  the  conduits  ran  wine,  rod 
and  white,  as  in  1312,  when  a  son  was  born  to  Ed- 
ward III.  One  of  the  nine  crosses  to  Queen  Eleanor, 
of  which  Charing  Cross  survives,  stood  here  to  mark 
the  spot  where  her  coffin   rested,   but  the  Puritans 

[09] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

pulled  it  down  in  Cromwellian  times.  Every  Lord 
Mayor's  Show,  gilded  coaches,  scarlet  robes  and  all, 
passes  down  Cheapside  and  many  a  coronation  pro- 
cession of  old  moved  down  this  thoroughfare. 
Henry  VIII  boldly  had  his  temporary  Queen,  Anne 
Boleyn,  pass  down  Cheapside  and  the  merchants 
gave  her  a  purse  of  a  thousand  marks,  whereas 
Queen  Elizabeth,  a  little  later,  on  the  way  to  her 
crowning,  received  a  Bible,  which  she  promised  to 
read  diligently.  I  declare,  one  could  go  on  forever 
with  one  of  these  ancient  streets,  if  only  the  space 
permitted.  For  this  is  the  very  heart  of  London 
(have  I  not  said  it  leads  to  the  Bank?)  and  Bow 
Bells  have  been  music  to  cockney  ears  for  near  upon 
a  thousand  years,  and  everybody  knows  how  they 
said  "  Turn  again,  Whittington "  to  the  future 
Lord   Mayor    of   London ! 

Shakespeare  and  Ben  Jonson  at  the  Mermaid 
Tavern  that  stood  in  Cheapside  between  Bread  and 
Friday  Streets  must  have  heard  those  bells  often 
in  the  early  morning  when  they  broke  up  after  their 
fabled  combats  of  wit  in  which,  so  Fuller  says,  Jon- 
son was  the  great  Spanish  galleon,  and  Shakespeare, 
the  nimbler  craft,  an  English  man  of  war.  But 
they  were  all  nimble,  as  we  gather  from  Beaumont's 
famous  lines : 

So  nimble  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame, 
As  if  that  everyone  from  whence  they  came 
Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  wit  in  a  jest, 
[ioo] 


THE   CITY 


The  tavern  had  an  entrance  into  Friday  Street  and 
one  into  Bread  Street,  and  there  is  a  legend  that  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh  was  the  founder  of  the  Mermaid 
Club.  It  may  be  mentioned  here  as  well  as  any- 
where that  one  of  the  few  facts  we  know  of  Chaucer's 
life  is  from  some  testimony  he  gave,  that  he  once 
walked  down  Friday  Street. 

Near  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  opposite,  stands 
that  legally  protected  plane-tree,  the  last  of  its  race, 
that  figures  in  the  Wordsworthian  poem  of  "  Poor 
Susan."  Those  lines,  so  tempting  to  the  parodist, 
say  that  — 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  day-light  appears, 
Hangs  a  thrush  that  sings  loud,  it  has  sung  for  three  years; 
Poor  Susan  has  passed  by  the  spot,  and  has  heard 
In  the  silence  of  morning  the  song  of  the  bird. 

I  can  only  say  that  poor  Susan  was  luckier  than  I, 
for  neither  morning  nor  afternoon  have  I  heard  any 
thrush  there.  We  cannot  pause  on  the  tradition 
that  Keats  wrote  his  sonnet  on  Chapman's  "  Ho- 
mer "  at  No.  71  Cheapside,  because  it  is  unsubstan- 
tiated ;  nor  need  one  linger  upon  the  Sadlers'  Hall 
or  the  Mercers'  Hall,  for  you  cannot  enter  those 
strongholds  without  a  preliminary  correspondence. 
But  upon  turning  into  King  Street  on  the  left  you 
come  direct  to  the  Guildhall,  and  that  is  quite  easy 
of  access. 

From   its  name   you   expect   something   very   fine, 

[101] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

imposing,  impressive,  a  building,  in  short,  worthy 
of  the  Guild  of  Guilds  of  the  opulent  City  of  Lon- 
don. None  of  those  adjectives  apply  to  the  Guildhall. 
It  is  not  even  showy ;  architecturally  it  seems  a  be- 
wildering mixture  lacking  even  the  homogeneity  of 
the  ginger-bread  style,  which  it  nevertheless  resem- 
bles. After  the  great,  massive,  typically  English 
buildings  you  have  seen,  it  seems  grotesque.  How- 
ever, this  outer  shell  (built  1789)  dates  to  an  age 
one  does  not  associate  with  fine  architecture.  I  say 
the  outer  shell,  because  a  Guildhall  there  has  been 
here  at  least  since  the  twelfth  century,  and  in  the 
crypt  through  which  you  pass  on  the  way  to  the 
museum,  you  still  see  the  remains  of  the  original 
building.  From  the  vaulting  you  would  suppose 
that  the  original  Guildhall  must  have  far  surpassed 
its  present  descendant,  theoretically  the  fortress  of 
the  "  City  merchant " —  a  combination  of  club, 
chamber  of  commerce,  town-hall  and  much  else  be- 
sides. The  gilded  coach  of  the  Lord  Mayor,  out- 
rider, powdered  footman  and  police  escort  (with  a 
gorgeously  costumed  figure  said  to  be  the  Lord 
Mayor  inside  the  coach)  begins  its  procession  here, 
and  turns  up  or  down  Cheapside  to  show  errand 
boys  to  what  they  may  aspire.  I  suppose  those  of 
us  who  come  from  overseas,  where  history,  so  to 
speak,  began  afresh,  with  little  of  the  trappings  of 
medievalism    clinging,    must    always    wonder   at    the 

state  of  mind  of  a  sensible  man  who  suffers  himself 

[102] 


THE    CITY 


to  be  thus  apparelled  and  paraded.  But,  n'im- 
porte,  as  the  French  say.  It  is  a  colorful  spectacle 
against  the  London  gloom.  And  a  little  madness 
leavens  life. 

The  two  wooden  giants,  Gog  and  Magog  on  the 
left  as  you  enter  the  Great  Hall,  seem  to  be  another 
remnant  of  medievalism.  No  one  can  quite  explain 
them.  The  present  ones  date  to  1708,  but  as  early 
as  1-115,  when  Henry  V  entered  London  from  South- 
wark,  the  ancestors  of  those  wooden  figures  were  set 
up  on  London  Bridge  holding  out  the  keys  of  the 
City  to  him.  After  the  giants  there  is  nothing  in 
particular  to  see  in  this  hall.  There  are  a  few  typ- 
ically English  statues  of  English  heroes.  The  vast, 
carnivorous  City  dinners  are  held  in  this  hall,  and 
Pepys,  who  dined  at  one  of  them  October  29,  1663, 
complained  that  only  the  Lords  of  the  Privy  Coun- 
cil had  napkins  and  forks.  You  may,  if  you  feel 
inclined,  receive  permission  to  look  in  at  the  Council 
Chamber,  and  study  the  coats  of  arms  of  the  different 
livery  companies  if  you  are  interested  in  that  species 
of  heraldry,  or  you  may  descend  from  the  Hall  into 
the  crypt  and  join  some  class  of  school-children, 
in  charge  of  a  teacher,  studying  civic  and  national 
history  by  examining  leaden  coffins,  cinerary  urns, 
or  other  remnants  of  the  Roman  occupation ;  or,  in 
the  museum  adjoining  the  crypt,  gaze  upon  ancient 
implements,   pottery,    ornaments,    autograph  letters 

from  Pepys  and  Wellington,  the  sign  of  Falstaff's 

[103] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

tavern,  the  Boar's  Head  in  Eastcheap,  and   so  on. 

The  library  overhead  is  a  magnificent  room  said 
to  contain  the  finest  collection  of  London  history  in 
existence,  and  the  Art  Gallery  adjoining,  contains 
some  Copleys,  a  deal  of  rubbish,  historical  and  oth- 
erwise, and  a  portrait  of  Lamb  by  Hazlitt,  which 
Baedeker  declines  to  star. 

Of  St.  Lawrence  Jewry,  a  church  backing  into  the 
very  yard  of  the  Guildhall,  I  have  said  nothing,  be- 
cause there  is  nothing  —  or  much  —  to  say.  It  is 
another  beautiful  church  that  seems  to  remain  a 
desolate  anachronism  in  a  region  that  has  no  need 
of  it.  Aldermen  and  City  merchants  don't  come 
to  the  City  to  worship  —  certainly  not  to  worship 
the  Lord.  In  olden  times  they  did ;  when  Bishop 
Tillotson  preached  here  they  lived  here  with  their 
families.  Now  the  train  and  the  motor  take  them 
into  the  country  in  forty  minutes.  And  the  same 
applies  to  St.  Mary  Aldermanbury,  a  step  away 
through  Fountain  Court,  in  Aldermanbury,  though 
I  actually  saw  a  stoutish,  red-haired  man  kneeling 
there  in  prayer  on  a  certain  cloudy  afternoon.  The 
register  of  this  church  records  Milton's  second  mar- 
riage in  1656  to  Catherine  Woodcock.  Down  Alder- 
manbury 3Tou  continue  to  Fore  Street  amid  an 
ever-increasing  bustle,  to  see  St.  Giles,  Cripplegate, 
and  the  tomb  of  Milton.  There  is  a  short  cut,  but 
this  way  is  the  best,  for  in  Fore  Street  you  pass 

[104] 


THE    CITY 


Milton   Street,   running  off  to   the   right,   and  that 
street  is  famous.     It  is  the  ancient  Grub  Street. 

Perhaps  the  change  of  name  to  Milton  Street 
was  due  to  the  fact  that  Milton  had  so  many  resi- 
dences in  this  district  —  in  Aldersgate  Street,  Jewin 
Crescent,  Little  Britain,  Bunhill  Fields.  But  Grub 
Street  it  is,  for  all  that,  and  as  dreary  a  thorough- 
fare as  doubtless  it  ever  was.  Samuel  Johnson  con- 
sidered it  part  of  the  regular  education  of  an 
author  to  have  passed  through  it,  but  Swift  and 
Pope  and,  indeed,  everyone  had  nothing  but  sneers 
for  it.  It  was  the  home  of  the  lowest  type  of  hack 
and  pamphleteer,  and  many  a  one  was  buried  by  the 
parish.  Swift,  deriding  Pope's  caligraphy  and  fru- 
gality in  the  use  of  paper,  advised  Grub  Street 
poets  to  send  their  verses  to  "  paper-sparing  Pope," 
who  would  joyfully  use  the  margins  of  their  copies 
for  his  own  verses.     And, — 

When  Pope  has  filled  the  margin  round 

Why  then  recall  your  loan; 
Sell  them  to  Curll  for  50  pound, 

And  swear  they  are  your  own ! 

A  minute's  walk  brings  you  to  St.  Giles,  a  hand- 
some, picturesque  little  church  —  almost  a  picture 
church  —  in  what  is  called  the  perpendicular  style, 
with  battlemented  walls  and  a  statue  of  Milton  at 
the    door.     There    is    no    vestibule,    you    enter    the 

[105] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

church  from  the  street  and  are  struck  by  the  sense  of 
freedom  and  the  spaciousness  that  seem  to  pervade 
it.  Yet  it  is  a  small,  silent  City  church  like  so 
many  others,  but  of  undoubted  antiquity.  The 
present  building  dates  to  1545,  though  the  original 
church  was  built  about  the  year  1090.  But  for 
illustrious  dead  this  is  a  little  Abbey ;  for  it  contains 
the  graves  of  John  Milton  (as  well  as  of  his  father), 
of  Foxe,  the  martyrologist,  of  Sir  Martin  Frobisher, 
the  navigator,  and  of  some  members  of  the  family 
of  Lucy,  Shakespeare's  Lucy,  in  whose  deer  preserves 
the  poet  is  believed  to  have  been  caught  poach- 
ing. Also,  the  register,  which,  by  the  way  is 
complete  to  1560,  informs  us  that  a  young  brewer 
named  Oliver  Cromwell,  on  the  29th  of  August,  1620, 
was  married  at  St.  Giles  to  one  Elizabeth  Bourchier. 

The  completeness  of  these  records,  with  their  ter- 
rible tale  of  the  plague-year,  1665,  served  as  material 
for  Defoe,  who  dwelt  near  by,  at  Barbican,  when 
he  was  writing  his  almost  too  convincing  narrative 
of  the  plague  epidemic. 

But,  of  course,  the  great  interest  lies  in  Milton's 
tomb.  The  actual  grave  is  in  front  of  the  altar, 
but  the  memorial,  with  a  bust  of  Milton  under  a 
black  oaken  canopy,  faces  the  door.  It  is  very 
simple  and  very  awe-inspiring,  as  the  simplicity  of 
greatness  always  is.  A  few  words  indicate  the  date 
of  birth  and  death,  and  that  is  all.  There  are  vari- 
ous  quaint   and   ancient   memorials   in   this   church, 

[io6] 


THE    CITY 


which  I  need  not  here  dwell  upon.     That  St.  Giles' 
holds  Milton  is  enough. 


ii. 


After  Milton's  tomb  to  find  oneself  in  the  Man- 
sion House,  is  surely  a  leap  from  the  sublime  to  the 
ridiculous,  yet  the  Lord  Mayor  would  hardly  think 
so.  Conducting  a  police  court  as  he  does  there  in  his 
stronghold,  I  am  sure  that  his  power  seems  to  him 
supreme  and  exhaustless.  Before  writing  this  sec- 
tion I  made  the  round  once  again  of  this  small  but 
agitated  district,  that  lies  roughly  between  Corn- 
hill  and  the  Thames,  and  between  the  Bank  and 
Mansion  House  and  the  Tower.  But  the  two  pleas- 
antest  spots  and  the  finest,  too,  lie  outside  those 
boundaries.  St.  Helen's  Church,  for  instance,  is 
in  Great  St.  Helen's  Bishopgate,  and  St.  Saviour's 
is  in  Southwark,  just  across  London  Bridge.  But  I 
know  of  no  way  of  seeing  this  portion  of  the  city, 
except  by  winding  in  and  out  among  its  lanes  and  al- 
leys and  moving  up  and  down  in  them. 

In  the  Mansion  House  there  is  virtually  nothing  to 
see.  The  "  State  Apartments  "  shown  cannot  com- 
pare with  the  scores  of  other  State  apartments  vis- 
ible throughout  Europe  with  far  less  scrutiny,  and 
in  any  case,  rooms  obviously  "  palatial "  are  ab- 
surd. Humanity  has  no  need  of  Gargantuan  tables 
or  Gargantuan  chairs.     Behind  the  Mansion  House 

is  the  little  Church  of  St.  Stephen's  Walbrook,  which 

I107] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

is  certain  to  be  closed  whenever  you  wish  to  see  it. 
Walbrook  was  really  a  brook  once,  and  not  a  very 
clean  one.  Now  it  is  a  narrow  street  leading  down 
to  Cannon  Street.  And  where  the  Mansion  House 
stands  was  a  famous  market  called  Les  Stokkes  Mar- 
ket, from  a  pair  of  stocks  that  stood  there  for  of- 
fenders. The  present  building  was  erected  in  1752. 
Should  you  wander  down  from  King  William  Street, 
just  east  of  the  Mansion  House,  into  St.  Swithin's 
Lane,  you  may  see  the  true  power  that  dominates  the 
City  proper.  The  throne  is  in  New  Court,  at  the  sign 
of  the  Red  Shield  overhanging  the  pavement.  Here 
are  the  business  premises  of  the  Rothschilds,  and 
when  I  glanced  into  that  trim  and  spacious  court,  a 
brougham  with  a  coronet  on  the  panels  drove  in,  and 
the  doors  of  the  building  on  the  right  swung  open. 
A  footman  doffed  his  silk  hat,  opened  the  door  of 
the  brougham,  and  gave  his  arm  to  a  slightly  stoop- 
ing old  man,  with  white  hair  and  a  friendly  counte- 
nance. Between  the  two  porters,  each  holding  open 
half  a  door,  passed  in,  stooping,  smiling,  the  lord  of 
money,  N.  M.  de  Rothschild,  whose  voice  carries 
farther  than  many  a  European  monarch's  and  whose 
signature  is  often  more  weighty7.  In  the  gateway 
stood  a  private  detective  who  watched  me  narrowly. 
A  little  way  farther  down  is  St.  Swithin's  Church 
(of  course  it  is  by  Wren ;  he  must  have  built  eighty 
per  cent,  of  all  the  churches  in  London)  with  Lon- 
don Stone  built  into  one  of  its  walls.     In  Roman  days 

[108] 


THE    CITY 


this  was  presumably  the  Forum,  and  distances  were 
measured  from  this  stone  —  the  millarium. 

There  are  many  centers  of  London,  but  one  of 
them  is  undoubtedly  the  junction  of  streets,  between 
the  Mansion  House  and  the  Royal  Exchange,  the 
Royal  Exchange  and  the  Bank.  No  less  than  seven 
great  thoroughfares  radiate  outward  from  this  point : 
the  Poultry,  which  is  really  Cheapside,  Queen  Vic- 
toria, King  William  and  Lombard  Streets,  Cornhill, 
Threadneedle  and  Princes  Streets.  The  Bank  of 
England,  needless  to  say,  overshadows  the  Mansion 
House,  as  well  as  all  else  in  its  neighborhood.  It 
is  the  Bank  that  has  made  obsolete  all  these  churches, 
and  had  Christopher  Wren  foreseen  that  the  idea 
thrown  out  in  1694  by  William  Paterson,  the  as- 
tute Scotchman,  would  result  in  a  total  eclipse  of  his 
work,  he  might  have  builded  with  less  zeal.  Sir 
Christopher  died  nearly  thirty  years  after  the  Bank 
was  founded,  but  he  could  not  foresee  it.  There  is  a 
notion  that  the  Bank  is  a  government  institution,  be- 
cause it  alone  can  issue  paper  money.  But,  of 
course,  it  is  a  joint  stock  bank,  like  so  many  others, 
though  the  first  of  that  species.  Black  and  win- 
dowless  its  stone  walls  face  the  Mansion  House,  face 
Princes  Street,  face  Lothbury,  Bartholomew,  Thread- 
needle  Streets.  Where  there  is  so  much  money,  win- 
dows are  dangerous,  hence  this  state  of  siege,  a  mon- 
ument to  the  architectural  skill  of  Sir  John  Soane, 
whose  house  is  a  museum  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 

[109] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

The  Royal  Exchange  is  another  local  shrine.  It 
is  a  great  hall  of  emptiness,  but  on  the  upper  floors 
are  the  rooms  of  Lloyd's,  where  they  insure  any- 
thing, from  a  ship  to  a  meteorite,  and  the  noise  they 
make  about  it  all  might  well  pass  muster  in  a  minor 
American  stock  exchange. 

Your  general  direction  here  is  eastward  toward 
Aldgate  and  the  Tower,  but  it  is  impossible  to  pre- 
serve a  rigid  method  of  exploration.  You  dodge  in 
and  out  of  streets  and  buildings  until  your  conscience 
is  satisfied.  For  instance,  in  Cornhill  near  by,  you 
glance  at  No.  41,  where  the  poet  Gray  was  born, 
and  into  St.  Peter's  Church,  because  it  is  the  oldest 
in  London.  Traditionally,  it  dates  to  179  A.  D., 
though  the  present  building  was  erected  by  Wren  in 
1681.  There  is  little  enough  to  see  there  now  un- 
less you  count  the  keyboard  used  by  Mendelssohn 
when  he  played  here  September  30,  1840.  The  ver- 
ger, or  rather  the  vergeress,  is  very  glad  to  show 
this  one  treasure  in  her  charge  in  the  oldest  church 
in  London.  You  may,  before  coming  to  St.  Peter's, 
lose  yourself  in  Change  Alley,  in  order  to  see  the 
site  of  Garraway's  Coffee  House,  where  Defoe,  who 
kept  a  hosier's  shop  near  by  in  Freemason's  Court, 
was  a  frequenter.  But  the  present  building  on  the 
site  is  most  disillusionizing.  And  south  of  Lombard 
Street  is  Plough  Court,  where  Pope  was  born.  Up 
Bishopsgate  on  the  left  from  Cornhill,  you  walk  into 

Great  St.  Helen's,  than  which  there  is  no  plcasanter 

[no] 


THE   CITY 


spot  to  rest  for  a  moment.  Returning  to  Leadenhall 
Street,  you  may  at  the  corner  of  Lime  Street,  see 
the  site  of  the  India  House  that  supported  James 
Mill,  his  son  John  Stuart  Mill,  and  of  course  Charles 
Lamb,  who  so  wisely  made  up  for  beginning  his  of- 
fice hours  late  by  ending  them  early. 

Lombard  Street,  once  the  home  of  the  collectors 
of  the  papal  revenues  and  later  of  their  successors, 
the  Italian  bankers,  who  took  the  place  of  the  Jew- 
ish bankers  expelled  in  the  thirteenth  century,  is  a 
street  of  bankers  still.  In  its  Church  of  St.  Ed- 
mund's, King  and  Martyr,  Addison  in  1716  con- 
tracted his  high  marriage  with  the  Dowager  Countess 
of  Warwick,  which  we  know  did  not  bring  him  much 
happiness.  Descending  Gracechurch  Street  from 
Lombard,  we  come  upon  the  Monument  and  the  en- 
trance to  London  Bridge.  I  have  doubtless  omitted 
many  of  the  churches  in  the  region,  but  my  con- 
science is  untroubled.  It  would  take  a  fanatic  to 
"  do  "  them  all. 

I  see  I  have  brought  up  sharp  at  the  Monument 

as  though  I  intended  to  write  a  chapter  upon  it,  but 

that  is  hardly  necessary.     The  Monument  is  simply 

a  very  tall  column  (202  feet  high)  put  up  by  Wren 

in  1677  to  commemorate  the  Great  Fire  of  1666,  so 

often  mentioned.     On  the  top  of  this  column  gilded 

flames  most  unrealistically  leap  heavenward.     If  you 

ascend  the  345  steps  you  may  get  a  fine  view  of  the 

river.     But  few  are  the  enthusiasts  that  ascend  them. 

[in] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 


Fishmongers'  Hall  at  the  approach  to  the  bridge,  is 
another  monument  —  to  the  fish  trade  —  gray  and 
dark  and  beautiful,  the  richly  shaded  London  color, 
and  you  cannot  help  marveling  naively  that  the 
Guild  of  Fishmongers  who  could  put  up  that  hall 
should  be  in  essence  one  with  the  chaffering,  noisy 
tribe  under  the  bridge,  on  the  opposite  side,  who  con- 
stitute the  soul  of  Billingsgate.  There  are  still 
some  "  ladies  disposing  of  fish  "  at  this  famous  gate, 
but  chiefly  there  are  men  and  horses  (including  don- 
keys) and  the  smell  of  fish  that  send  up  their  salute 
to  you  as  you  lean  over  the  parapet  of  the  bridge 
and  look  down  upon  them.  Resolutely  you  conclude 
that  that  experience  is  enough,  and  without  listening 
for  the  celebrated  language,  you  march  on  across  the 
busy  bridge  to  the  Borough  towards  St.  Saviour's, 
now  known  as  Southwark  Cathedral. 

So  far  as  the  sightseer  is  concerned  Southwark  (or 
Sothark,  as  it  is  pronounced)  contains  only  two  or 
three  points  of  interest,  but  they  are  of  capital  im- 
portance. And  the  greatest  of  these  is  St.  Saviour's 
because  it  is  still  comparatively  intact,  despite  reno- 
vations. A  whole  county  of  Dickens  Land  lies  far- 
ther down  along  the  High  Street,  but  St.  Saviour's 
might  be  called  the  Church  of  the  Dramatists.  It 
dates  far  enough  back,  however,  to  hold  the  tomb 
of  the  poet  Gower,  contemporary  of  Chaucer,  whom 
the  verger  calls  Chaucer's  teacher.  Well,  we  all 
learn  from  each  other,  so  we  may  let  that  pass.     The 

[112] 


■ .   /;/  Is  v/,.  r,.-  Travel  Co. 


St.  Saviour's  Church 


THE    CITY 


original  nave  was  built  by  Gifford,  Bishop  of  Win- 
chester, so  early  as  1106.  A  hundred  years  later, 
another  Bishop  of  Winchester  built  the  Choir  and 
Lady  Chapel  which  (bar  repairs)  survive  to  this  day. 
The  nave  was  rebuilt  in  1896,  but  in  admirable  taste, 
and  in  the  style  of  the  original.  Altogether  this  is 
a  church  of  harmony,  and  it  has  need  to  be,  for  be- 
sides the  tomb  of  Gower  it  has  on  the  opposite 
(south)  side  of  the  nave  a  monument  in  marble  with 
a  reclining  alabaster  figure  to  William  Shakespeare, 
so  long  a  resident  of  this  parish  — "  a  tribute  from 
English  and  American  admirers,"  the  inscription 
reads.  The  windows  of  Massinger,  Fletcher  and 
Beaumont  follow  Shakespeare's  along  the  wall. 
After  Beaumont's  is  a  window  to  Edward  Alleyn, 
player,  who  was  a  churchwarden  here  in  1610.  It 
shows  that  despite  the  low  legal  status  of  the  actor 
at  that  time  (and,  indeed,  until  to-day),  of  a  va- 
grant, he  must  have  been  held  in  some  esteem,  never- 
theless, to  be  a  churchwarden  and  to  found  a  school ; 
for  Alleyn  founded  Dulwich  College.  Facing  all 
these,  in  the  north  wall,  are  windows  to  Goldsmith, 
Dr.  Johnson,  Dr.  Sachevercll,  Bunyan,  Chaucer,  and 
also  the  monument  to  Gower.  There  are  divers  other 
quaint  and  ancient  monuments  here  including  Tre- 
hear"ne  "  Gentleman-porter  "  to  King  James  I  — 
whatever  a  Gentleman-porter  may  have  been,  and 
a  certain  crusader.  But  the  one  tomb  that  I  hold 
it  a  duty  to  pay  one's  respects  to,  is  that  of  Bishop 

["3] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

Lancelot  Andrews,  a  modest  and  saintly  man  who 
was  one  of  the  translators  of  the  Authorized  Ver- 
sion. He  li<?s  in  the  ancient  Lady  Chapel,  which  is 
very  dark  and  very  peaceful.  Massinger,  Fletcher 
and  Edmund  Shakespeare,  a  brother  of  William,  are 
also  buried  here,  but  the  location  of  their  graves  is 
uncertain. 

Americans  may  be  said  to  have  a  home  at  St. 
Saviour's,  for  the  Harvard  Chapel  was  created  by 
them  to  commemorate  the  baptism  here  of  John  Har- 
vard on  the  29th  of  November,  1607.  I  saw  a  fac- 
simile of  the  entry,  and  it  is  of  the  briefest.  "  John 
Harvard,  son  of  Robt.  Harvard,"  and  this  Robt. 
Harvard  in  1610  was  a  churchwarden  of  St.  Sav- 
iour's, and  thus  a  colleague  of  the  actor  Alleyn. 
The  verger  feels  that  that  contact  must  have  in- 
fluenced John  Harvard  in  Massachusetts  to  found 
our  great  University  by  example,  for  he  must  have 
heard  there  that  Alleyn  was  founding  Dulwich  in 
England.  There  is  a  strange  flavor  about  those 
benefactions  by  poor,  or  comparatively  poor,  men. 
For  Robert  Harvard  was  a  tavern-keeper,  Allc3rn  an 
actor,  and  John  Harvard  a  poor  clergyman.  Nowa- 
days it  seems  to  require  a  hundred  millions  or  so  of 
superfluity  before  men  will  found  colleges.  I  should 
add,  that  to  Mr.  William  Phillips,  formerly  secretary 
of  the  American  Embassy  in  London,  now  Regent  of 
Harvard,  is  due  the  opening  of  the  Harvard  Chapel 
—  to   which   Mr.    Choate    contributed   the    window. 

[114] 


THE   CITY 


Mr.  Robert  Bacon  provided  a  Visitors'  Book  where 
Harvard  men,  presumably  (for  there  is  a  space  for 
"  class  "),  to  enter  their  names.  But  the  Harvard 
names  are  lost  amid  the  multitude  of  signatures  from 
Kennington,  Whitechapel,  Chicago  and  intermediate 
points  on  the  map. 

What  remains  of  Southwark  to  be  seen  is  less  ac- 
cessible than  the  Cathedral.  For  instance,  a  part 
of  Barclay  and  Perkins'  Brewery  (of  which  Dr. 
Johnson's  friend  Thrale  was  originally  one  of  the 
owners)  stands  upon  the  site  of  Shakespeare's 
Theatre,  the  Globe,  where  so  many  of  the  plays  were 
produced,  and  so  much  of  the  poet's  success  made. 
It  is  in  Park  Street,  perhaps  a  quarter  mile  from 
the  church  and  a  fine  bronze  tablet  records  the  fact 
that  "  Here  stood  the  Globe  Playhouse  of  Shake- 
speare 1598-1603."  In  Thomas  Street,  on  the  way 
thither,  one  may  turn  down  far  enough  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  Guy's  Hospital,  which  a  bookseller,  who 
actually  achieved  wealth  in  South  Sea  speculation, 
founded  in  1731.  John  Keats  studied  medicine 
there,  and  must  have  often  trodden  the  streets  that 
Shakespeare  walked  in  two  centuries  before  him. 
The  White  Hart,  where  the  best  of  masters,  Mr. 
Pickwick,  first  met  the  best  of  servants,  Samuel 
Weller,  son  of  Tony  (it  sounds  like  a  roll-call  in 
Valhalla!)  has  now  disappeared  from  its  place  (No. 
61)  in  the  Borough  High  Street,  though  I  see 
the  rooms  of  the  Samuel  Weller  Social  Club  are  on  the 

[»5] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

site.  But  at  No.  77,  a  little  to  the  south,  stands  the 
George  Hotel,  as  genial  an  old  inn  as  the  White 
Hart  must  have  been.  A  little  further  away,  at  No. 
85,  is  the  Tabard  Inn,  descendant  (very  modern 
descendant)  of  Chaucer's  Tabard's  Inn,  point  of  de- 
parture for  the  Canterbury  Pilgrims.  The  Church 
of  St.  George,  further  down  the  High  Street,  is  fa- 
miliar to  readers  of  "  Little  Dorrit,"  and  its  church- 
yard holds  many  dead  of  the  old  Marshalsea  Prison, 
which  stood  near  by.  And  if  you  wander  all  the 
way  to  Lambeth  you  may  even  see  Bedlam,  or  the 
Bethlehem  Royal  Hospital  for  Lunatics.  But  it  is 
best  to  return  across  London  Bridge  and  catch  an- 
other glimpse  of  the  mediaeval  turrets  upon  the 
Tower  Bridge,  &  short  distance  down  the  river. 


[1x6] 


VIII 

THE       TOWER 

IF  you  go  on  to  the  Tower  from  London  Bridge, 
by  way  of  Lower  Thames  Street,  to  which  a 
stairway  leads  from  Adelaide  Place,  the  bridge 
entrance,  you  may  look  into  the  old  and  beautiful 
church  of  St.  Magnus  Martyr  (by  Wren),  where 
Miles  Coverdale,  the  first  translator  of  the  complete 
English  Bible  once  officiated  as  rector,  and  where  he 
now  lies  buried.  There,  in  the  heart  of  Billingsgate, 
this  fine  mellow  church  is  crumbling  on  through  the 
centuries,  without  striking  incongruity.  The  last 
time  I  visited  the  Tower,  I  walked  this  way  through 
Billingsgate,  turned  up  St.  Dunstan's  Hill,  past  St. 
Dunstan's-in-the-East  (also  by  Wren),  and  thence, 
by  Great  Tower  Street,  and  past  All  Hallows  Bark- 
ing, to  Great  Tower  Hill.  All  Hallows  Barking 
deserves  a  visit,  if  only  because  that  great  spirit 
William  Penn  was  baptized  within  it.  The  Bishop 
Lancelot  Andrews,  whose  tomb  we  saw  in  Southwark 
Cathedral,  was  also  baptized  here,  and  John  Quincy 
Adams  was  married  at  All  Hallows  on  July  26th, 
1797,  to  Louisa  Catherine  Johnson.  From  Tower 
Hill,  a  step  eastward,  where  so  many  famous  heads 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

were  severed,  the  remains  that  were  carried  to  All 
Hallows  Church  included  those  of  Archbishop  Laud 
and  the  Earl  of  Surrey.  The  church  escaped  the 
fire  of  1666,  and  by  consequence  much  of  its  me- 
diaeval architecture  and  many  ancient  brasses  re- 
main intact.  Near  the  church  stands  a  tavern, 
called  the  Czar's  Head,  which  Peter  the  Great  fre- 
quented (not  the  same  building,  of  course)  when  he 
was  learning  to  build  ships  in  England. 

The  more  normal  way  of  arriving  at  the  Tower, 
however,  would  be  from  the  Mark  Lane  Underground 
station,  opposite  this  Church  of  All  Hallows,  which 
would  eliminate  the  walk  through  Billingsgate.  The 
few  costers  and  policemen  who  now  generally  occupy 
Tower  Hill,  and  the  public  coffee-bar  with  coffee  ever 
so  cheap,  may  seem  less  picturesque  than  the  scaffold 
that  parted  from  their  heads  the  two  Dudleys,  the 
Duke  of  Northumberland  (1553),  who  owned  Char- 
terhouse but  who  never  dwelt  in  it ;  the  poet  Earl  of 
Surrey  and  his  son  Norfolk  (1572)  who  did  live  in 
Charterhouse,  Sir  Thomas  More,  and  Bishop  Fisher, 
not  to  mention  the  Scotch  Lords  (Lovat  as  late  as 
1747),  but  if  these  noble  and  revered  heads  could  now 
revisit  the  Hill  they  would  no  doubt  approve  of  the 
landscape  even  in  its  degeneration. 

It  is  only  the  Hill,  however,  that  may  be  said  to 
have  degenerated.  For  the  Tower  itself,  rising  high 
and  majestic,  with  turrets,  flags  and  pinnacles,  bas- 
tions, battlements  and  castellated  walls,  is  a  spectacle 

[n8] 


THE    TOWER 


for  the  gods.  It  seems  almost  as  remote  from  the 
twentieth  century  as  the  Tower  of  Babel  would  be 
in  the  middle  of  Whitechapel  Road.  When  you  see 
that  brave  pile  (as  such  things  used  to  be  called), 
you  forget  completely  that  Whitechapel  lies  some- 
where, not  very  far,  to  the  east,  and  the  City  im- 
mediately to  the  west.  You  think  of  all  that  dead 
and  gone  era  of  the  knighthood  and  chivalry  of  both 
Amadis  de  Gaul  and  reality,  an  era  which  seemed  so 
preposterous  even  to  Cervantes,  which  seems  so  in- 
credibly preposterous  to  us  of  to-day.  Yet,  the 
Tower  and  much  of  its  contents  testify  to  the  grim 
actuality  of  that  bygone  age,  and  unless  your  blood 
is  frozen  by  some  of  the  instruments  of  torture  in 
the  Armory,  you  cannot  help  laughing  inwardty  at 
the  folly  of  mankind,  that  has  always  taken  itself 
with  so  much  pompous  and  absurd  seriousness. 
From  every  point  of  view  the  Tower  is  a  thing  to  be 
seen.  It  is  tonic.  It  makes  you  feel  what  fine  fel- 
lows we  ane  in  that  we  no  longer  behead,  throw  into 
dungeons,  or  crush  to  a  jelly  the  thumbs  of  people 
who  differ  in  matters  of  faith.  We  do,  indeed,  look 
with  complacency  on  machine  guns  and  their  work, 
but  machine  guns,  notably  our  own  machine  guns,  are 
different.  And  some  day,  perhaps,  we  shall  pass 
through  a  gate  and  take  a  ticket  for  them  even  as 
now  for  the  Tower. 

Of  course,  the  Tower  is  not  all  armory,  but  it  is 
natural  to  regard  instruments  of  torture  and  weapons 

["9] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

of  death  with  warm  interest.  The  architectural 
glamour  of  the  place  is  unique  in  England  and  his- 
torically, I  suppose,  its  interest  is  unsurpassed  for 
English-speaking  people.  All  the  separate  towers 
and  buildings  are  plainly  labeled,  making  the  walls 
and  grounds  themselves  the  items  of  a  sort  of  huge 
exhibit.  The  moat  requires  no  label,  for  any  reader 
of  "  Ivanhoe  "  would  immediately  know  its  uses  and 
imagine  it  flooded.  It  is  now  white  and  dry,  and  the 
last  time  I  saw  it,  some  soldiers  of  the  little  garrison 
were  playing  football  upon  its  bed.  But  it  is  a  com- 
fort to  think  that  it  could  be  flooded  still,  and  that 
one  day  some  imaginative  Governor  of  the  Tower 
will  do  it  for  our  edification. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh  was,  I  suppose,  admitted  with- 
out a  ticket,  but  now  you  must,  even  on  free  days, 
obtain  a  ticket  at  the  office  near  the  Lion's  Gate, 
where  of  old  was  the  Lion  Tower,  a  part  of  the 
menagerie  removed  to  Regent's  Park.  Edward  Al- 
leyn,  the  actor,  he  who  according  to  the  verger  of  St. 
Saviour's  is  supposed  to  have  indirectly  influenced 
John  Harvard  to  found  Harvard  College,  was  at  one 
time  keeper  of  the  menagerie,  and  that  is  how  he  is 
said  to  have  amassed  the  money  to  found  Dulwich 
with.  It  seems  a  more  likely  way  than  acting  —  in 
these  days.  An  excellent  guide  purchased  for  a 
penny  at  the  gate  gives  in  large  type  the  names  and 
descriptions  of  the  various  towers  you  pass  on  the 
way   to  Wakefield  Tower,  where  the  Crown  Jewels 

[120] 


THE   TOWER 


are  kept.  On  the  right  is  the  river  and  Traitors' 
Gate,  where  so  many  of  the  finest  spirits  of  England 
landed  to  enter  these  precincts  of  gloom  and  death. 
Edward,  Duke  of  Buckingham,  Sir  Thomas  More, 
Anne  Boleyn,  Queen  Katherine  Howard,  Lady  Jane 
Grey,  Devereux,  Earl  of  Essex,  the  Duke  of  Mon- 
mouth —  what  a  roll-call !  All  passed  under  that 
broad  and  sinister  archway,  and  strangely  enough, 
Elizabeth,  afterwards  Queen,  who  so  loved  to  punish 
others,  herself  landed  at  Traitors'  Gate  as  a  prisoner. 
The  whole  place  breathes  of  mystery  and  romance, 
even  to  this  day,  when  little  detachments  of  soldiers 
in  khaki  parade  before  your  eyes  and  tourists  strag- 
gle about,  guide-book  in  hand.  Yet  Harrison  Ains- 
worth  could  have  chosen  no  fitter  background  for  a 
novel  than  the  Tower  of  London.  There,  opposite 
that  very  Traitors'  Gate  stands  the  gloomy  masonry 
of  Bloody  Tower,  where  Richard  III  had  the  little 
Princes  done  to  death,  as  we  believe,  and  as  by  this 
sword  I  undertake  to  maint  —  dear  me !  I  am  for- 
getting the  tourists  and  the  mild  beef-eaters  on  guard. 
But  the  very  walls,  the  very  name  of  the  Tower,  re- 
call strange  and  vanished  figures  of  speech  and  long- 
forgotten  boyish  thrills  of  the  blood.  The  lines, 
the  very  stage  directions  of  "  Richard  III  "  recur  to 
the  mind :  "  Enter  the  Two  Murderers,"  "  Enter 
Gloucester  and  Buckingham,  in  rotten  armour,  mar- 
vellous ill-favoured,"  "  Enter  Lovel  and  Ratcliff,  with 
Hastings'  head,"  or, — 

[121] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE    PICTURE 


First  Murd.    Take  that,  and  that:  if  all  this  will  not  do, 

{stabs  him) 
I'll  drown  you  in  the  malmsey-butt  within 

(Exit,  with  the  body). 

The  Crown  Jewels  and  other  implements  of  sov- 
ereignty, in  the  past  so  costly  in  blood  to  maintain, 
are  now  very  peacefully  exhibited  (suffragettes  per- 
mitting) in  the  Wakefield  Tower  near  by.  There  is 
no  need  to  rhapsodize  over  these  regalia  though  they 
are  worth  seeing.  A  "  fine  ruby  given  to  the  Black 
Prince  by  Peter  the  Cruel,"  April  3rd,  1367,  as  the 
penny  guide  informs  us,  is  of  course  more  seeing- 
worth  (in  the  German  phrase)  than  merely  a  fine 
ruby.  St.  Edward's  Staff,  King  John's  Anointing 
Spoon,  Queen  Elizabeth's  "  Salt  "  and  many  more 
such  knick-knacks  are  here  to  be  seen,  besides  the 
Crowns  and  Coronets,  that  are  said  to  compare  un- 
favorably with  kind  hearts.  The  mild  Lancastrian 
King,  Henry  VI,  is  said  to  have  been  murdered  here 
by  Gloucester,  who,  in  Shakespeare's  words,  had 
"  neither  pity,  love,  nor  fear."  Murdered  or  not, 
however,  the  Crown  Jewels  are  silent  on  the  matter. 
The  White  Tower,  the  next  station  in  the  usual 
itinerary  of  the  visitor,  is  the  oldest  portion  of  the 
fortress.  King  Alfred's  bastions  built  here  in  885 
were  successors  to  some  Roman  fortifications,  and 
William  the  Conqueror  proceeded  to  build  a  Keep 
here  in  1078.  The  roll  of  Kings  and  noble  prison- 
ers, who  have  occupied  the  White  Tower,  either  as 

£122] 


THE    TOWER 


palace  or  as  prison,  would  fill  a  whole  Almanach  de 
Gotha.  It  seems  a  picturesque  fact  that  Long- 
champ,  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion's  Regent,  enlarged 
and  inhabited  the  Tower  until  King  John  took  it 
away  from  him  in  1191.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  the 
romantic  Richard's  talents  lay  not  in  the  domain  of 
administration.  He  was  King  of  England  for  one 
decade,  yet  he  had  to  get  Longchamp  to  do  his  ruling 
for  him,  while  he  careered  about  the  world,  hob  and 
nobbed  with  Saladin  and  "  did  "  time  in  a  German 
prison.  The  history  of  "  La  Blanche  Tour  "  is  a 
long  one,  and  I  cannot  here  trace  it  out  or  name  all 
the  Childe  Rolands  that  to  this  White  Tower  came, 
but  I  must  not  omit  to  mention  that  Christopher 
Wren,  who  built  almost  everything  in  London  except 
the  Tubes,  which  he  left  to  the  late  Charles  T.  Yerkes, 
had  a  hand  in  the  Tower  as  well.  In  1709  he  put  in 
the  present  windows  to  admit  more  light  than  Norman 
barons  were  accustomed  to  in  their  castles.  This 
Castle  shows  clearly  how  any  Norman  King's  or  gen- 
tleman's house  could  also  be  his  enemy's  prison. 
Home  was  not  home  unless  it  could  serve  as  a  jail  for 
rivals  and  brothers  if  need  were. 

St.  John's  Chapel,  to  which  you  are  admitted  be- 
fore visiting  the  armory,  seems  startlingly  new  and 
fresh  at  first  sight,  and  yet,  it  was  mentioned  as 
early  as  1189.  The  walls  of  this  Chapel,  so  cold  and 
so  gray,  and  the  massive  stone  pillars  and  gallery, 
show  what  homes  these  strongholds  made.     Even  now 

[123] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

England  is  incredibly  uncomfortable  in  winter  for 
lack  of  proper  heating  apparatus.  At  that  time,  to 
use  the  words  of  Mr.  Loftie's  penny  guide,  in  spite 
of  the  use  of  wTooden  partitions  and  tapestry,  it 
"  must  have  been  miserable  as  a  place  of  residence." 
The  Royal  Residence  that  once  adjoined  this  Chapel 
and  Tower  was  pulled  down  by  Cromwell,  and  only  a 
fragment  of  it  remains  in  the  detached  Wardrobe 
Tower. 

The  Armories  housed  in  the  White  Tower  are,  aside 
from  the  regalia,  the  exhibit  in  the  Tower.  They 
include,  I  should  say,  a  fairly  complete  encyclopedia, 
in  concrete  form,  of  all  imaginable  and  unimaginable 
instruments  of  death  and  torture.  Considerable 
esthetic  taste  has  gone  to  the  arrangement  of  these 
things  and  you  see  great  roses,  rosettes  and  other 
forms  made  of  glittering  polished  swords,  ba3ronets, 
cutlasses,  sabers,  what  not.  The  collection  was  be- 
gun by  that  broad-minded  monarch,  Henry  VIII,  and 
has  been  added  to  during  virtually  every  subsequent 
reign.  From  the  musket  of  the  year  one,  you  may 
go  back  to  the  arquebus  or  forward  to  the  mauser. 
The  figures,  mounted  or  otherwise,  in  armor  of  a 
vast  range  of  workmanship,  make  the  upper  story  of 
the  White  Tower  a  museum  of  chivalry.  But  there 
are  many  other  things  in  this  Tower  besides  arms  and 
armor.  A  model  of  the  rack,  a  thumbscrew,  the 
Duke  of  Wellington's  uniform  when  Constable  of  the 

Tower,  the  cloak  Wolfe  wore  when  he  died  at  Quebec, 

[124] 


THE  TOWER 


the  drums  of  Blenheim,  King  Edward's  funereal  gun- 
carriage,  and  so  on.  It  is  useless  to  itemize,  but 
interesting  to  see. 

What  remains  of  the  visible  parts  of  the  Tower, 
is  sad  with  memorials  of  death  and  cruelty.  On 
Tower  Green,  near  to  the  Parade,  upon  which  you 
emerge  from  the  White  Tower,  is  the  spot  where  the 
scaffold  stood,  and  Beauchamp  Tower  is  eloquent 
with  the  names  of  those  who  were  confined  therein: 
the  four  Dudleys,  Philip  Howard  Arundel,  Geoffrey 
Pole,  "Thomas  Talbot,  1462,"  and  Dr,  Thomas 
Abel,  faithful  servant  of  Katherine  of  Aragon, 
Henry  VIII's  discarded  Queen.  And  the  chapel  of 
St.  Peter  ad  Vincula,  mentioned  as  early  as  1210,  is 
a  veritable  cemetery  of  queens  and  noblemen.  This 
chapel,  included  in  the  places  accessible  only  upon 
obtaining  a  pass  from  the  Governor  of  the  Tower 
to  Raleigh's  prison,  Guy  Fawkes'  prison,  etc.,  is  nev- 
ertheless sometimes  shown  upon  request  by  the  warder. 
Lord  Hastings,  who  was  executed  on  Tower  Green  in 
1483,  Queen  Anne  Boleyn  in  1536,  Countess  Margaret 
Salisbury,  the  last  of  the  Plantagcnets,  1541,  Queen 
Katherine  Howard,  fifth  wife  of  Henry  VIII,  1542, 
Jane,  Viscountess  Rochford,  1542,  Lady  Jane  Grey, 
1554,  and  Robert  Devereux,  Earl  of  Essex,  1601  — 
all  were  buried  in  the  chapel  of  St.  Peter.  To  them 
this  historical  museum  that  we  straggle  about  to  see, 
was  a  wall  of  death  or  the  gate  of  life,  according  to 
the  state  of  their  souls. 

[125] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 


Just  as  in  Walpole's  day  all  that  lay  west  of  Hyde 
Park  Corner  was  a  desert,  so  to  the  London   City 
man   of   to-day    all   that    stretches   beyond    Aldgatc 
or  the  Tower  is  a  wilderness.     WhitechapeJ  sends  a 
member  to  Parliament,  and  the  docks  and  their  in- 
habitants  figure   amusingly   in  the  tales   of  W.  W. 
Jacobs.     But  essentially  they  are  regions  beyond  the 
ken  of  man.     I  need  hardly  say  that  to  anyone  who 
takes  the  trouble  to  visit  Whitechapel  and  Mile  End 
Road,  their  importance  and  vitality  will  very  soon 
be   apparent.     They   are   a   world  by  themselves,   a 
swarming,   busy,   active   world,   aggressive  and  pro- 
gressive, indifferent  yet  enormously  interested.     Mr. 
Zangwill  has  described  it  once  for  all  in  "  Children 
of  the  Ghetto."    Others,  too,  have  described  it.    But 
in  this  book  it  would  be  out  of  place.     The  visitor 
who  steps  out  of  the  Underground  at  St.  Mary's, 
Whitechapel,  will  be  astonished  to  find  himself  in  the 
heart  of  a  wholly  new  London,  but  it  is  a  London  to 
which  I  cannot  guide  him.     With  a  last  look,  there- 
fore, at  the  Tower,  at  the  Royal  Mint,  at  Trinity 
House,  we  leave  this  region  as  a  kind  of  Pillars  of 
Hercules,  and  hasten  back  to  the  West  End,  which 
to  the  dweller  in  Whitechapel  or  Houndsditch  is  re- 
mote to  unreality. 


[126] 


IX 

WHITEHALL      AND      WESTMINSTER 

TO   walk   from   Charing  Cross   down  Whitehall 
and   its   continuation,   Parliament   Street,   to 
Westminster  Abbey,  is  to  pass   through  the 
heart   of  Kipling's   England.     Waterloo   may  have 
been  won  on  the  playing-fields  of  Eton,  and  to  the 
Englishman's  loyalty  is  doubtless  due  the  fact  that 
the  sun  never  sets  on  the  British  Empire.     But  if  the 
heart  of  that  Empire  is  not  here  in  Westminster,  it 
is  nowhere.     The  concrete  group  of  Government  of- 
fices  gives   one   a   strange   feeling   of  human   pride. 
After  all,  you  say,  these  are  only  a  few  buildings, 
populated,  during  office  hours,  by  a  few  thousand 
men,  yet  from  this  half  mile   (or  less)  of  street,  is 
ruled  so  large  a  portion  of  the  habitable  globe,  that 
other  nations  complain  of  a  lack  of  places  in  the  sun. 
From  the  Roman  Forum  radiated  roads  to  the  con- 
fines of  the  Empire.     From  the  Admiralty  in  White- 
hall, by  means  of  the  wireless  installation  we  see  on 
the   roof,   messages   are  flashed  to   obedient  Dread- 
noughts in  distant  seas.     That  is  better  than  Rome 
could  do,  and  quite  deserving  of  Mr.  Kipling's  poetry. 
And  though  one  regrets  having  to  compare  England 

[127] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

to  Rome  so  often,  England  is  nevertheless  still  Eng- 
land, and  far  from  the  case  of  Rome.  But  this  street 
gives  you  a  notion  of  how  the  average  Roman  felt 
when  he  walked  through  the  Forum.  He  must  have 
felt  proud.  This  is  not  the  Forum,  yet  it  is  magnif- 
icent.    But  it  is  not  spectacular. 

The  Admiralty  Arch,  which  forms  the  gateway 
from  Charing  Cross  to  St.  James's  Park,  is  less  an 
arch  than  a  set  of  office  rooms  belonging  to  the  Ad- 
miralty. Every  French  journalist,  with  the  well- 
known  French  taste  for  generalization,  no  doubt  says 
to  himself  when  first  he  observes  this  phenomenon, 
that  to  go  to  Buckingham  Palace  you  pass  under  the 
rooms  of  the  Admiralty.  The  windows  of  Bucking- 
ham face  the  wireless  installation ;  symbolically  the 
King,  himself  a  sailor,  forever  contemplates  his  Navy. 
And  that  is  largely  true.  If  Whitehall  is  the  heart 
of  Britain,  the  Admiralty  is  its  vital  principle.  You 
cannot  take  up  an  English  newspaper  in  this  present 
year  of  grace  without  perceiving  the  immense  concern 
of  England  for  her  navy.  Two  keels  to  one,  gifts 
of  Dreadnoughts  by  the  Colonies,  these  are  the  great- 
est preoccupations  of  England.  And  the  office  space 
of  the  Admiralty  is  simply  enormous.  It  extends 
into  Trafalgar  Square  by  the  Arch,  far  into  St. 
James's  Park  behind,  and  fronts  upon  Whitehall 
with  four  tall  columns,  and  one  of  those  gray  and 
glamourous  facades  so  distinctive  of  London.  This 
and  the  Horse  Guards,  with  its  gray  clock  tower  form 

[128] 


WHITEHALL    AND    V/ESTMINSTER 


together  the  most  picturesque  part  of  Whitehall. 
Both  were  built  in  the  eighteenth  century,  which  has 
given  them  ample  time  to  acquire  the  national  color 
of  gray.  Of  perennial  interest  are  the  two  mounted 
Life  Guards  at  the  Horse  Guards,  with  their  red 
coats,  shining  harness  and  horse-hair  plumes.  In 
Berlin,  Vienna  or  St.  Petersburg  no  one  would  give 
them  a  thought.  There,  bizarre  and  chromatic  uni- 
forms are  common.  But  for  Englishmen  it  is  always 
a  little  startling  to  see  fellow  Englishmen  dressed  as 
for  a  mask  ball.  It  is  even  more  so  for  those  of  us 
who  come  from  simpler  and  more  democratic  coun- 
tries and  colonies  overseas.  So  that  a  beef-eater  in 
the  Tower,  a  Life-Guard  on  a  black  charger,  a  Lord 
Mayor  in  his  robes,  are  positively  thrilling  phenom- 
ena, mainly  because  they,  too,  speak  English,  and 
are  not  mere  foreigners,  to  whom  masquerading  in 
fancy  dress  is  an  everyday  natural  occurrence. 

These  two  buildings  and  the  Banqueting  Hall 
opposite  give  all  the  color  to  Whitehall.  The  others 
are  mere  office  warrens  of  a  very  modern  pattern, 
without  interest  except  for  the  chiefs  that  rule  them. 
But  the  banqueting  hall  suddenly  takes  you  back  to 
the  England  of  the  Tudors,  to  the  England  of  the 
Stuarts,  to  Cromwellian  days.  One  is  surprised 
Cromwell  did  not  tear  it  down,  since  a  Stuart  built 
it.  The  particular  Stuart  was  James  I,  and  it  was 
to  be  the  regeneration  of  the  ancient  Palace  of  White- 
hall, occupied  by  Henry  VIII  before  the  days  of  St. 

[129] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

James's.  Instead,  however,  it  virtually  served  as  a 
scaffold  for  King  James's  son,  Charles  I,  for  out  of 
the  second  window  from  the  north  of  this  hall  Charles 
marched  to  his  death  the  morning  of  January  30, 
1649.  Whitehall  Palace,  so  often  mentioned  in 
Shakespeare's  histories,  was  therefore  never  rebuilt, 
and  the  hall  alone  remains.  It  is  a  military  and 
naval  museum  now,  and  the  shrewd  old  soldier  who 
guides  you  about  it  happens  to  think  contemptu- 
ously of  Stuarts.  I  remember  one  day  borrowing  his 
mirror  in  order  to  examine  the  fine  ceiling  by  Rubens, 
which  represents  the  Apotheosis  of  James  I. 

M  That,  sir,"  commented  the  old  soldier,  "  repre- 
sents James  I  going  to  Heaven  —  as  if,"  he  added 
in  a  whisper,  "  a  Stuart  could  get  to  Heaven ! " 
Verily,  sic  transit!  Charles  I  conferred  knighthood 
upon  Rubens  and  paid  him  highly  for  painting  this 
ceiling,  which  was  to  glorify  his  race,  but  from  under 
it  he  merely  walked  to  his  death.  A  tablet  outside 
shows  where  the  scaffold  was  erected  —  that  much, 
at  least,  is  left  of  the  Stuarts  at  Whitehall.  But 
what  of  the  Archbishops  of  York  who  owned  York 
House  for  250  years  before  Henry  VIII  arranged 
to  "  take  it  over  "  from  Wolsey  —  that  prelate  of 
fabulous  wealth,  who  gleamed  with  red  and  gold  and 
scarlet,  from  whose  shoes  glittered  precious  dia- 
monds? What  of  Henry  VIII  himself  and  of  Anne 
Boleyn,  whom  he  married  here  January  25,  1533? 

[130] 


WHITEHALL   AND   WESTMINSTER 


Nothing  remains  of  them  except  their  memory,  and 
that  not  glorious.  Charles  II  lived  here  gayly  for  a 
time,  but  two  fires,  one  in  1691  and  another  in  1697, 
swept  away  all  the  old  part  of  Whitehall  and  no  one 
rebuilt  it.  No  more  banquets  here,  such  as  James  I 
gave  to  the  Spanish  Ambassador,  whilst  the  populace 
admitted  to  look  on,  were  crying:  "Peace!  Peace! 
Peace !  God  save  the  King !  "  After  which  pious 
prayer  there  was  bear-baiting  and  "  excellent  bull- 
baiting."  The  very  cockpit  of  Henry  VIII  is  oblit- 
erated. Yet  you  hear  people  maintain  that  human 
morals  do  not  progress ! 

The  implements  of  death  in  the  Tower  would  nor- 
mally be  considered  a  sufficient  exhibit  of  the  kind 
for  one  city.  But  London  enjoys  the  special  priv- 
ilege of  the  Royal  United  Service  Museum  as  well. 
Here,  housed  in  the  banqueting  hall,  you  see  machine- 
guns,  Maxims,  shell  and  shrapnel,  exquisite  models 
of  the  most  modern  forms  of  killing  in  large  num- 
bers. You  see  a  gun  made  of  a  drain-pipe  by  some 
besieged  soldiers  of  Ladysmith,  and  you  see  mortars 
that  were  too  ambitious  to  live.  Any  subaltern  or 
club-smoking-room  tactician  can  study  strategy  by 
models  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo  or  the  fight  at  Traf- 
algar, and  all  can  seek  inspiration  from  the  relics 
of  General  Wolfe,  Napoleon,  Wellington,  Sir  John 
Moore,  or  Sir  John  Franklin,  the  polar  hero ;  and 
soon  there  will  be  relics  of  that  other  polar  hero  of 

[131] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

our  own  time,  Captain  Scott.  The  place  is  well 
worth  visiting,  and  even  Mr.  Norman  Angell  can 
gain  information  and  arguments  there. 

I  have  said  nothing  of  i  he  War  Office,  across 
Horse  Guards'  Avenue  from  the  museum,  because 
there  is  nothing  to  say.  But  a  tranquil  crescent 
of  houses  behind  the  banqueting  hall  is  Whitehall 
Gardens.  Peel  lived  (and  died)  there  in  1850  at 
No.  4,  as  a  tablet  indicates ;  and  Disraeli  dwelt  at 
No.  2,  1873  to  1875,  as  no  tablet  indicates,  which 
is  regrettable.  But  that  house  is  now  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Imperial  Defense  Committee,  and 
that  in  itself  is  a  kind  of  monument  to  "  Dizzy," 
for  did  he  not  give  England  a  great  part  of  her 
Empire?  Montague  House,  the  town  house  of  the 
Duke  of  Buccleuch,  and  Richmond  Terrace  continue 
Whitehall  beyond  the  banqueting  hall,  and  opposite 
are  the  offices  of  the  Scottish  Lord  Advocate,  the 
Treasury  and  the  Privy  Council  buildings  to  Down- 
ing Street. 

Downing  Street,  I  am  bound  to  say,  the  very  name, 
has  always  aroused  in  me  a  certain  thrill  of  emo- 
tion. From  No.  10  of  that  street  is  governed  the 
British  Empire.  I  was  prepared  to  see  a  palace. 
I  was  disappointed  to  find  a  simple,  three-storied 
house,  of  Georgian  blackened  brick,  such  as  any 
fairly  paid  journalist  might  inhabit.  But  one's  dis- 
appointment is  only  for  a  moment.  Surely  it  is 
magnificent  that  the  head  of  the  Government,  the  ac- 

[132] 


WHITEHALL   AND   WESTMINSTER 

tual  ruler,  the  Prime  Minister  of  England  should  live 
thus  modestly  and  leave  the  palaces  to  South  African 
and  other  millionaires !  And  the  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer  lives  in  a  precisely  similar  house  adjoin- 
ing at  No.  11.  One  policeman  is  on  duty  before  both 
houses.  It  is  so  simple  and  so  fine  that  citizens  of 
distant  republics  who  think  on  palaces  may  well  look 
here  for  inspiration.  It  is  odd,  by  the  way,  that 
the  very  name  of  the  street  is  that  of  an  American, 
George  Downing,  who  was  Ambassador  to  The  Hague 
under  Cromwell  and  Charles  II.  Sir  Robert  Wal- 
pole  did  a  fine  thing  when  he  urged  George  II  to 
make  10  Downing  Street  the  Prime  Ministers  house 
forever.  One  wonders  what  Boswell,  once  a  resident 
in  this  street,  thought  of  it  all,  and  what  Dr.  Johnson 
said. 

The  vast  building  of  the  Foreign,  Colonial,  India 
and  Home  offices  extends  from  Downing  clean  to 
Charles,  along  Parliament  Street,  and  the  Board  of 
Education  and  Local  Government  Board  complete 
the  street.  Opposite  is  New  Scotland  Yard,  head- 
quarters of  the  finest  police  system  in  the  world. 
No  one  who  comes  to  England,  from  whatever  coun- 
try, but  must  find  that  his  own  police  compares  ill 
with  London's.  What  makes  these  stalwart  men 
so  much  more  courteous  and  quick  and  cheerful  than 
their  brother  blue-coats  of  New  York,  than  the  brood- 
ing agents  of  Paris,  or  the  tense,  irate  polizistcn  of 
Berlin?     No  one  has  been  able  to  answer  this  query 

[i33] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

satisfactorily ;  yet  no  Londoner,  resident  or  visitor, 
but  feels  himself  in  their  debt. 

And  so  we  are  at  the  end  of  Whitehall  —  Parlia- 
ment Street,  but  I  cannot  pretend  to  have  described 
it.  The  broad  and  noble  sweep  of  it,  the  haze  that 
overhangs  it  even  in  bright  sunshine,  the  curved  line 
of  motor  'buses  bowling  along  towards  Westminster, 
with  ample  margin  on  either  hand,  the  Government 
buildings,  even  the  equestrian  statue  of  the  Duke 
of  Cambridge  —  all  of  these  fall  into  a  truly  beauti- 
ful harmony,  peculiar  to  London,  peculiar  to  Eng- 
land, yet  rare,  unique.  The  towers  and  spires  of 
Westminster  make  a  fitting  goal  for  that  broad  high- 
way. 

Delightful  is  the  sense  of  breadth  and  space  you 
get  in  the  region  of  the  Abbey.  The  towers  of  St. 
Margaret's  Church  and  the  Abbey,  Big  Ben  on  the 
left  and  the  Victoria  Tower  at  the  far  end  of  the 
Parliament  buildings,  all  form  a  noble  prospect, 
which  the  green  enclosure  with  the  statues  of  Peel 
and  Palmerston,  Derby  and  Bcaconsfield  only  enhance. 
But  it  was  not  always  so.  Some  of  the  worst  slums 
in  London  once  lay  in  Westminster.  Members  of 
Parliament  and  suitors  in  the  law  courts  (for  an- 
ciently the  law  courts  were  here)  were  the  only 
decent  citizens  of  the  region.  The  people  were  on 
one  occasion  described  as  "  of  no  trade  or  mystery, 
poor  and  wholly  given  to  vice  and  idleness."  It  was 
a  great  place   for   "  fences  "   and  receivers,  and  in 

[i34] 


Copyright  by  Sttreo-  Travel  Co. 

Westminster  Bridge,  showing  "Big  Ben' 


WHITEHALL  AND  WESTMINSTER 


James  First's  time  every  fourth  house  was  "  an  ale- 
house harbouring  all  sorts  of  lewd  and  badde  peo- 
ple." 

Yet  there  was  always  much  sanctity  about  the 
place,  for  even  St.  Margaret's,  the  parish  church 
that  stands  facing  you  north  of  the  Abbey,  was 
(traditionally)  founded  by  Edward  the  Confessor, 
and  is  at  least  eight  hundred  years  old.  As  for  the 
Abbey,  Sebcrt,  the  Saxon  King,  is  said  to  have 
founded  it  as  early  as  616,  and  in  the  Chapter  House 
you  may  actually  see  the  document  (dated  978)  by 
which  King  Edgar  granted  the  Abbey  "  five  hides  of 
land,"  though,  of  course,  Edward  the  Confessor  is 
the  real  creator  of  the  Abbey.  But  even  that  is 
nine  hundred  years  ago.  Nevertheless  a  low  popu- 
lation gathered  round  the  sacred  places,  round  the 
Sanctuary  that  stood  beyond  the  Abbey,  and  where 
now  lie  the  trim  streets,  once  lay  chaos.  It  was  per- 
haps as  well  for  these  "  lewd  and  badde  people  " 
not  to  be  too  far  away  from  Sanctuary.  But  in  the 
light  of  these  facts  the  cry  at  the  end  of  the  daily 
session  of  Parliament,  "Who  goes  home?"  is  not 
surprising.  Members  were  afraid  to  go  home  in  the 
dark,  and  walked  in  troops  with  lanthorns  and  link- 
boys.  We  remember  that  many  of  the  Paternoster- 
ers  round  St.  Paul's  were  no  less  rascals  than  those 
surrounding  the   Abbey.     I   cannot   explain   it. 

But  to  return  to  St.  Margaret's.  Its  proximity 
to  the  Abbey  often  causes  it  to  be  neglected  by  vis- 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

itors.  Yet  it  contains  the  tomb  and  effigy  of  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh  with  this  appealing  inscription,  in 
itself  deserving  homage :  "  Reader,  should  you  re- 
flect on  his  errors,  Remember  his  many  virtues,  And 
that  he  was  a  mortal."  At  crowded  Sunday  services 
the  chairs  of  the  worshipers  surround  the  kneeling 
effigy  of  Sir  Walter  and  the  noble  knight  seems  very 
humble  and  devout  in  his  attitude.  Milton's  second 
marriage  took  place  here,  and  the  wife  of  that  mar- 
riage, as  well  as  her  infant  daughter,  lie  buried  be- 
neath this  church.  Two  other  English  poets  were 
married  here,  Waller  and  Thomas  Campbell,  to  say 
nothing  of  Samuel  Pepys,  whose  wife  and  whose  life 
we  come  to  know  so  well  in  the  diary.  But  to  know 
Pepys  we  must  go  to  the  Pep}Tsian  library,  at  Mag- 
dalene College,  Cambridge.  The  Dons  of  that  ex- 
cellent little  college  are  very  kind  to  students  of 
Pepysiana,  though  I  believe  they  deplore  the  diarist's 
morals.  St.  Margaret's  possesses  a  fine  stained-glass 
window,  representing  the  Crucifixion,  with  a  romantic 
history.  The  town  of  Dordrecht,  Holland,  presented 
it  to  Henry  VII,  but  Henry  VIII,  Avho  inherited  it 
before  its  recipient  could  erect  it,  gave  it  to  Walthain 
Abbey,  which  he  soon  thereafter  dissolved.  It  passed 
through  many  hands  subsequently,  including  Queen 
Elizabeth's,  Oliver  Cromwell's  and  General  Monk's. 
It  was  buried  during  the  Revolution  for  fear  of  the 
Roundheads,  and  later  disinterred.  But  not  till 
1758  did  it  find  its  place  at  St.  Margaret's.     There 

[136] 


WHITEHALL   AND   WESTMINSTER 


are  many  more  modern  windows  here  to  Caxton  (who 
is  buried  in  the  church),  to  Milton  (gift  of  George 
W.  Childs),  to  Raleigh,  and  to  Phillips  Brooks,  pro- 
vided by  Americans,  to  Sir  Thomas  Erskine  May, 
and  so  on.  The  walls  are  covered  with  ancient  mon- 
uments and  tablets.  Altogether  it  is  a  delightful 
church  to  wander  in. 

Entering  Westminster  Abbey  by  the  North  Tran- 
sept you  would  feel  at  once,  even  if  you  knew  noth- 
ing of  its  story,  that  you  are  in  the  Valhalla  of 
England.  The  Monument  of  the  elder  William  Pitt 
arrests  your  gaze  at  the  very  doors,  and  you  find 
yourself  surrounded  by  statues  and  monuments  of 
the  Duke  of  Newcastle,  George  Canning,  Beacons- 
field,  Palmerston,  Castlereagh,  Gladstone,  and  many 
statesmen  less  known  to  us  than  these.  And  un- 
less one's  ambitions  are  moderate,  bewilderment  be- 
gins at  this  point.  The  half  cannot  be  told  — 
certainly  not  in  one  chapter  of  a  book  —  nor  can  it 
be  seen  in  a  solitary  visit.  It  is  difficult  to  see  every- 
thing by  yourself  and  it  is  not  easy  to  follow  the 
rapid,  stereotyped  remarks  of  the  black-gowned  ver- 
gers. You  are  oppressed  by  a  feeling  that  their 
time  is  money,  and  even  in  the  chapels  they  are  far 
too  brief  and  pressing.  The  best  plan  in  my  experi- 
ence is  to  purchase  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette  "  six- 
penny "  Guide  "  a  day  or  two  before  and  to  become 
familiar  with  its  contents.  After  that  the  Abbey 
will  seem  a  little  less  chaotic.     The  great  names  of 

[i37] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

England  and  the  world  look  down  upon  you  from 
every   foot   of  space,   or  up   from   the  pavement. 

In  the  West  aisle  of  this  north  transept  you  come 
upon  Warren  Hastings,  Richard  Cobden,  Sir  Henry 
Maine,  Lord  Halifax.  And  strolling  down  the  aisle 
of  the  nave  on  the  same  side  of  the  church  you  find 
William  Wilberforce,  the  foe  of  slavery,  the  tomb 
and  the  monument  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  the  grave 
of  Lord  Kelvin  and  the  great  black  slabs  in  the  pave- 
ment over  the  remains  of  the  astronomer  Herschel 
and  of  Charles  Darwin.  "  O  Rare  Ben  Jonson " 
lies,  or  rather  stands  (for  he  was  buried  standing) 
in  about  the  middle  of  the  North  Aisle,  and  beyond 
him  are  Hunter,  Lyell,  the  geologist,  Charles  James 
Fox,  Viscount  Howe,  Lord  Lansdowne,  Lord  Hol- 
land, Zachary  Macaulay,  father  of  the  historian, 
and  William  Pitt,  who  was  not  only  a  chip  of  the  old 
block,  but  the  old  block  itself. 

Crossing  to  the  opposite  side,  which  is  the  old 
baptistry,  you  find  a  miniature  Poets'  Corner  with 
windows  to  Cowper  and  Herbert,  with  monuments  to 
Charles  Kingsley,  to  Dr.  Thomas  Arnold  and  his 
son  Matthew,  to  Keble  and  to  Wordsworth.  The 
long  line  of  the  South  Aisle  contains  many  names  to 
enumerate  which  would  make  a  catalogue.  I  shall 
only  mention  those  of  Congreve,  the  dramatist,  Ma- 
jor Andre,  John  Wesley,  Godfrey  Kncller  and  Sir 
Cloudesley    Shovel.     Of    course    many    of   these,   as 

[138] 


WHITEHALL    AND   WESTMINSTER 

Wordsworth  and  Wesley,  are  buried  elsewhere.  In 
the  middle  of  the  nave  are  the  tombs  of  David  Liv- 
ingstone, Archbishop  Trench,  Robert  Stephenson, 
the  engineer,  Sir  James  Outram,  the  soldier,  Lord 
Lawrence  and  many  others. 

This  brings  one  to  the  South  Transept  and  to 
what  is  to  many  of  us  the  most  interesting  spot  in 
the  Abbey  —  the  Poet's  Corner.  The  worst  of 
tombs  and  graves  is,  that  in  describing  them  you  can- 
not help  falling  into  the  tone  of  the  cicerone,  with 
the  stereotyped  phrases.  But  in  the  Poet's  Corner 
all  order  is  suspended,  and  the  only  way  you  could 
enumerate  the  names  is  to  shoot  them  out  of  a  can- 
non's mouth.  The  space  is  small  and  the  huddle  of 
tombs  and  memorials  is  great,  which  gives  an  air  of 
bewildering  confusion.  If  it  is  indeec  a  poet's  cor- 
ner, you  wonder  what  John,  Duke  of  Argyll  and 
Greenwich,  is  doing  there  with  a  huge  and  elaborate 
tomb  by  Roubiliac.  But  this  is  like  any  other  so- 
ciety :  you  always  find  a  few  outsiders  and  cabotins. 
But  the  poets  are  there  for  all  that  (with  certain 
notable  lacunae)  from  Chaucer  to  Tennyson. 
Chaucer's  remains  had  not  far  to  travel,  for  he 
dwelt  before  his  death  in  a  cottage  that  stood  where 
Henry  VII's  Chapel  now  stands.  The  busts  of  Dry- 
den  and  Longfellow  greet  you  in  the  most  luminous 
spot  of  the  Corner,  near  the  gates  of  the  Ambulatory, 
and  just  beyond  them  is  the  sixteenth  century  tomb 

[i39] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 


of  Chaucer  with  a  fine  window  above  it.  The  chron- 
ological order  of  a  library  or  a  picture-gallery  is 
obviously  out  of  the  question  here,  so  you  must  find 
those  canonized  in  your  heart  among  the  many  not 
so  canonized,  among  the  many  you  possibly  never 
heard  of.  In  a  row  of  slabs  in  front  of  Chaucer's 
tomb  you  find  the  graves  of  Cowley,  Browning,  Ten- 
nyson and  Denham.  You  would  perhaps  prefer, 
say,  Keats  and  Shelley  or  Keats  and  Chatterton  to 
occupy  the  places  of  Cowley  and  Denham,  but  so  it 
is.  Spencer,  "  prince  of  poets,"  is  also  buried  near 
Chaucer,  and  it  was  Spencer's  tomb  that  fixed  the 
name  of  this  spot  as  the  Poet's  Corner.  You  go  on 
discovering  the  graves  of  Dickens,  Sheridan,  Garrick, 
Macaulay,  of  Handel,  the  musician,  whose  wonderful 
march  from  "  Saul  "  Ave  heard  so  beautifully  played 
on  the  Abbey  organ  only  the  other  day  at  the  White- 
law  Reid  memorial  service.  You  find  memorials  to 
Johnson,  Goldsmith,  Irving,  Southey,  Burns,  Thack- 
eray, Coleridge,  and  the  somewhat  crouching  and 
contracted  figure  of  Shakespeare,  erected  in  1740. 
Shakespeare  seems  unfortunate  in  his  monuments. 
The  one  at  Southwark  is  not  much  better.  But,  as 
Milton  said : 

What  needs  my  Shakespeare  for  his  honour'd  bones 

The  labour  of  an  age  in  piled  stones? 

And  Shakespeare  rests  at  Stratford  ("  Cursed  be 
he  that  moves  my  bones!  "),  Milton,  as  we  have  seen, 
at  St.  Giles,  Thackeray  in  Kensal  Green,  and  Gold- 

[140] 


WHITEHALL   AND   WESTMINSTER 


smith  in  the  Temple.     The  labor  of  an  age  in  piled 
stones  was  unnecessary  to  them. 

Concerning  the   chapels   of  the   Abbey   and  their 
tombs  books  have  been  and  might   still  be  written. 
Yet  here  I  can  say  but  little  concerning  them.     You 
cannot  wander  among  them  alone.     You  must,  ex- 
cept on   Mondays  and  Tuesdays,  pay  sixpence  ad- 
mission, and  whether  you  pay  or  not,  a  guide  ac- 
companies  and  lectures   to  you.     There  is  nothing 
wrong  with  that,  if  only  he  gave  you  more  time  to 
examine  the  tombs.     But  for  the  most  part  it  is  a 
swift  journey,  like  that  of  an  express  train.     Three 
of  the  finest  old  tombs  in  the  Abbey  are  outside  the 
chain  of  chapels.     I  mean  those  of  Aveline  of  Lan- 
caster, of  her  husband  Edmund  Crouchback,  founder 
of  the  house  of  Lancaster,  and  of  Aymer  de  Valence, 
Earl  of  Pembroke,   once  the  owner  of  the  Temple, 
after  the   Templars  were   expelled  from  it.     These 
tombs  were  all  erected  in  the  fourteenth  century,  in 
the  finest  Gothic  style  we  know  anything  about.     The 
portrait  of  Richard  II,  a  much  restored  and  much 
tampered-with  picture,   but   nevertheless   the   oldest 
contemporary   portrait   of  an  English  sovereign  in 
existence,  is   also   in   the   Sanctuary.     Close   by   the 
gate  of  the  South  Ambulatory  is  the  tomb  of  King 
Sebert,  who  died  about  616,  which  the  guide  is  in 
too  much   of  a  hurry   to  show   you.     And  then,  it 
should  be  said,  there  is  some  doubt  of  the  authenticity 
of  this  tomb.     But  so  many   thoroughly   authenti- 

[141] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 


cated  kings  and  queens  lie  in  the  chapels  which  follow, 
that  a  Saxon  king  more  or  less  matters  little. 

Think  how  many  Royal  bones 
Sleep  within  these  heaps  of  stones, 

sang  Francis  Beaumont,  in  his  day,  contemplating 
the  Abbey.  And  if  I  were  the  King,  bent  on  perpet- 
uating my  line,  I  should  close  the  Abbey  chapels. 
Still,  perhaps  it  is  as  well  to  show  them,  in  order  to 
prove  over  and  over  that  royal  bones  have  no  ad- 
vantage whatsoever  over  others. 

With  the  very  first  chapel  shown  begins  that  series 
of  names  famous  in  British  history  that  makes  this 
portion  of  the  Abbey  so  impressive.  Here  in  St. 
Edmund's  lie  the  Earl  of  Shrewsbur}',  Edward  Tal- 
bot, and  his  Countess ;  William  de  Valence,  Earl  of 
Pembroke,  father  of  Aymer;  the  little  brother  and 
sister  of  the  Black  Prince  with  tiny  figures  of  them 
in  alabaster  placed  there  in  1340,  at  a  cost  of  20 
shillings,  and  strangely  enough,  Bulwer  Lytton,  the 
voluminous  author  of  "  The  Lady  of  Lyons  "  and 
so  many  other  books  and  plays.  Under  what  is  con- 
sidered the  finest  brass  in  the  Abbey  lies  Eleanor  de 
Bohun,  Duchess  of  Gloucester,  whose  husband  was 
murdered  at  the  order  of  Richard  II  in  1397.  The 
brass  does  not  look  as  though  it  had  been  there  over 
five  hundred  years,  and  yet  it  has. 

The  oldest  tomb  in  the  next  chapel,  of  St.  Nicho- 
las, is  that  of  Philippa,  Duchess  of  York,  whose  hus- 

[142] 


WHITEHALL   AND   WESTMINSTER 


band  died  on  the  field  at  Agincourt.  Other  remark- 
able tombs  there  are;  those  of  Lady  Burleigh  (died 
1589)  wife  of  the  great  Burleigh  (he  himself  is 
buried  at  Stamford);  of  Sir  George  and  Lady  Vil- 
liers,  a  veritable  altar  erected  by  their  son,  the  famous 
and  infamous  Buckingham  of  James  I  and  Charles  I ; 
and  the  vault  of  the  Percy  family,  of  the  blood  of 
Hotspur,  which  still  has  the  right  to  be  buried  in 
the  Abbey,  irrespective  of  the  Dean's  or  the  public's 
wishes. 

These  chapels,  however,  seem  but  as  accessories 
to  the  great  chapel  of  Henry  VII,  "  the  wonder  of  the 
world,"  as  it  has  been  called,  which  occupies  more 
space  than  all  the  rest  put  together.  I,  for  my  part, 
believe  that  Rome  and  Florence  have  finer  old  mon- 
uments to  show,  but  I  cannot  thrill  at  the  names  of 
Popes  or  Medici  as  at  these  ancient  British  names. 
Besides,  I  doubt  if  all  Europe  can  show  such  a  ceiling 
as  this  in  Henry  VII's  chapel.  Washington  Irving 
speaks  of  "  the  fretted  roof  achieved  with  the  wonder- 
ful minuteness  and  airy  security  of  a  cobweb,"  and  a 
later  writer  compares  it  to  lace.  Torrigiano,  a  fel- 
low pupil  of  Michael  Angelo,  is  responsible  for  some 
of  the  sculpture  here,  but  I  know  not  who  made  the 
ceiling,  except  that  it  must  have  been  of  Italian  work- 
manship, though  an  English  mason,  Robert  Vertue, 
is  said  to  be  the  designer  of  the  chapel.  Lace,  cob- 
web —  the  comparisons  are  equally  apt  and  equally 
vague.     One  must  see  it  to  learn  what  can  be,  what 

£143] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 


once  could  be,  wrought  in  stone.  It  was  a  belief  of 
Henry  VII  that  if  he  built  a  splendid  place  of  sepul- 
ture for  himself  and  his  family,  the  new  Tudor  line 
which  he  was  establishing  on  the  throne  would  be 
more  solidly  fixed  in  England.  His  own  tomb  was 
carved  by  the  imported  Torrigiano,  and  everything 
from  the  bronze  gates  to  the  ceiling  was  made  studi- 
ously beautiful. 

In  many  respects  the  most  popularly  interesting 
tomb  in  the  south  aisle  of  the  chapel,  is  that  of  Mary, 
Queen  of  Scots,  who  was  buried  after  her  execution 
at  Peterborough  Cathedral.  But  when  her  son, 
James  I,  came  to  the  throne  of  England,  he  had  the 
remains  brought  to  Westminster  and  built  a  tomb 
for  her  as  elaborate  as  that  which  holds  Queen  Eliz- 
abeth in  the  north  aisle  opposite,  also  erected  by  him. 
In  each  case  a  marble  effigy  lies  under  a  canopy  upon 
a  heavy  sarcophagus.  Many  princes  and  princesses 
lie  in  Queen  Mary's  vault,  including  the  Prince  Ru- 
pert, Elizabeth,  Queen  of  Bohemia,  daughter  of 
James  I,  and  eighteen  children  of  Queen  Anne,  only 
one  of  whom  survived  infancy,  and  he  died  at  eleven 
years  of  age.  To  me  the  most  notable  tomb  in  the 
south  aisle  is  that  of  Margaret  Beaufort,  Countess  of 
Richmond  and  Derby,  the  mother  of  Henry  VII. 
The  effigy  shows  the  excellent  character  of  the 
woman ;  she  founded  two  colleges,  Christ's  and  St. 
John's  at  Cambridge,  endowed  the  Chairs  in  Divinity 
in  both   Universities,   and  to   this  day   forty  poor 

[144] 


WHITEHALL   AND   WESTMINSTER 


widows  every  week  receive  two  loaves  of  bread  and 
two  pence  at  the  Abbey  through  this  Countess's 
charity.  In  the  Chapter  House  I  saw  her  house- 
hold account-book,  and  I  am  not  surprised  to  learn 
that  to  her  "  the  King,  her  son,  owed  everything." 
Richly  docs  she  deserve  the  Torrigiano  tomb  in 
which  she  has  slept  some  four  hundred  years  and 
odd.  Other  royal  remains,  in  the  mortuary  phrase, 
awaiting  the  resurrection  here,  are  those  of  Charles 
II,  William  and  Mary,  Queen  Anne  and  General 
Monk. 

Dean  Stanley,  that  indefatigable  student  of  the 
Abbey,  has  a  chapel  almost  to  himself,  and  the  Crom- 
well vault  beyond,  you  are  told,  is  empty  since  the 
bones  of  the  Protector  were  violently  desecrated 
upon  the  Restoration.  But  the  descendants  of 
Charles  II  cluster  thickly  in  the  self-same  Chapel, 
and  as  for  the  (favorite)  Duke  of  Buckingham,  he 
has  an  entire  chapel  to  himself  with  an  elaborate 
monument  abounding  in  sculptured  women  weeping 
and  children  praying  in  what  would  now  be  called  a 
very  rococo  style. 

The  tomb  of  Henry  VII  himself  (and  of  his  Queen 
Elizabeth  of  York)  in  this  upper  part  of  the  chapel, 
was  well  worth  all  the  effort  and  money  that  Henry 
expended  upon  it.  The  bronze  effigies,  the  black 
marble,  the  frieze  and  the  figures  are  of  admirable 
workmanship.  James  I  liked  it  so  much  that  he  had 
himself  buried  in  the  vault  beneath.     The  altar  is  in 

[i45] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 


front  of  the  tomb  and  before  the  altar  lies  Edward 
VI.  George  II  and  Queen  Caroline  are  buried  fur- 
ther down  the  nave  with  no  more  memorials  than 
their  names  upon  the  paving  stones,  and  many  of 
the  progeny  of  the  House  of  Hanover  fill  the  rest  of 
the  nave.  The  tomb  of  the  little  princes  murdered 
in  the  Tower  adjoins  Buckingham's  grandiose  chapel 
and  Queen  Elizabeth's  resting-place,  further  down 
the  north  Ambulatory,  has  already  been  mentioned. 
Addison,  under  a  gray  slab  with  bronze  lettering, 
sleeps  at  the  very  threshold  of  this  north  aisle,  so 
that  you  cannot  help  walking  over  his  grave  every 
time  you  leave  this  chapel. 

Edward  the  Confessor's  Chapel,  shown  after  Henry 
VII's,  is  the  shrine  of  the  Abbey,  and  more  than  two 
centuries  older  than  the  other.  Plantagcnet  Kings 
lie  grouped  about  the  Confessor's  tomb,  and  the 
Plantagcnet  Henry  III  himself,  and  his  two  sons, 
bore  the  saint's  coffin  on  their  shoulders,  October  13, 
1269,  to  this  new  resting-place,  where  it  has  since  re- 
mained. And  Henry  III  lies  opposite  St.  Edward 
with  the  Confessor's  Queen,  Editha,  between  them. 
Edward  I,  the  Hammer  of  the  Scots,  who  brought 
the  "  stone  of  destiny  "  to  England  and  his  Queen 
Eleanor,  for  whom  Charing  Cross,  and  the  other 
crosses  were  built,  sleeps  on  the  same  side.  Opposite 
are  Edward  III,  his  Queen  Philippa,  who  saved  the 
burgesses  of  Calais,  and  Richard  II,  last  of  the  Plan- 
tagenet  line.     Henry  V  under  a  headless  wooden  ef- 

[146] 


WHITEHALL   AND   WESTMINSTER 

figy,  sleeps  in  the  Chantry  Chapel  near  by,  with  the 
sword,  shield  and  saddle  he  used  at  Agincourt  raised 
on  a  beam  above  him.  Katherine  de  Valois,  his 
Queen,  who  spoke  such  pretty  French  in  Shakes- 
peare's play,  is  not  far  away.  The  coronation  chair, 
with  the  Stone  of  Scone,  or  of  Destiny,  inside  it, 
is  also  kept  in  the  same  chapel.  Every  king  since 
Edward  Longshanks  has  sat  in  it,  yet  it  looks  like  a 
durable  piece  of  furniture  despite  the  thousand  in- 
itials carved  upon  it  and  the  general  wear  and  tear. 

Other  chapels  contain  other  tombs,  but  if  one  is 
not  very  careful  one  may  grow  as  morbidly  avaricious 
of  tombs  as  of  jewels  or  postage  stamps.  I  shall 
enumerate  no  more  here,  despite  the  fact  that  many 
remain,  even  in  the  cloisters.  And  the  cloisters  lead 
one  to  the  Chapter  House  (once  the  only  house  of 
Parliament  England  possessed)  which  is  simply  a 
treasure  house  of  ancient  documents,  royal  seals  and 
what  not.  That  is  one  thing  which  makes  England 
so  romantic  to  those  of  English  speech.  The  very 
growth  of  the  speech  itself  may  almost  be  traced  in 
the  Chapter  House.  You  may  see  there  a  document 
of  the  Mercian  King  Offa  (dated  785)  ;  a  letter  of 
John  0'  Gaunt;  documents  of  Caxton,  Wynken  de 
Worde;  of  John  Milton,  father  of  the  poet;  and  of 
John  Dryden,  the  poet.  And  strangely  enough  a 
tablet  to  James  Russell  Lowell  is  dimly  visible  in  the 
dark  doorway. 

The  Jerusalem  Chamber,  whither  Henry  IV  was 

[i47l 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

carried  after  his  seizure  while  praying  in  a  niche  of 
the  Confessor's  shrine,  is  not  shown  because,  as  the 
porter's  daughter  put  it,  the  Dean  has  it  for  his 
own  private  use.  The  Dean  also  has  an  outlook 
upon  that  haunt  of  peace,  Dean's  Yard,  out  of  which 
an  old  Gothic  arch  leads  to  the  famous  Westminster 
School,  that  has  educated  so  many  notable  English- 
men, including  Ben  Jonson,  Fletcher,  Hakluyt,  Dry- 
den,  Locke,  Sir  Christopher  Wren,  Cowper,  Gibbon, 
Warren  Hastings,  Bentham  and  Southey.  The  red 
granite  column  just  west  of  the  Abbey  is  said  to 
stand  upon  the  site  of  Caxton's  house,  but  Sir  Walter 
Besant  fixes  the  spot  within  the  limits  of  the  present 
Westminster  Palace  Hotel.  Outside  Dean's  Yard 
begins  Victoria  Street,  a  broad  and  busy  thorough- 
fare full  of  shops,  flats  and  office  buildings.  It  is 
worth  following  at  least  as  far  as  Ashley  Place,  in 
order  to  get  a  sight  of  the  new  Catholic  Cathedral 
(1902)  with  its  speckled  appearance  of  red  brick 
and  gray  stone.  A  new  cathedral,  however,  is  like 
a  new  violin  or  new  wine. 

The  Houses  of  Parliament  I  have  kept  until  the 
last  because  they  loom  so  large  that  I  expected  them 
to  close  this  chapter  like  a  national  anthem.  And 
now  that  I  have  reached  them,  I  am  suddenly  dumb. 
Stand  upon  Westminster  Bridge  at  midnight, —  or 
at  any  other  time  —  and  look  upon  the  broadside  of 
towers,  stone  and  spires,  and  you  are  overwhelmed  by 
the  massiveness  and  seeming  dignity  of  the  ensemble. 

[148] 


WHITEHALL    AND    WESTMINSTER 

But  somehow  upon  nearer  examination  you  find  noth- 
ing to  thrill  you.  The  whole  vast  fabric  has  been 
built  since  18-10,  and  at  times  it  gives  you  the  ef- 
fect of  being  sadly  out  of  drawing.  It  seems  as 
though  the  architect  forgot  his  scale  and  began 
afresh  from  time  to  time  on  a  new  scale.  Yet  it  is 
very  impressive  at  a  distance,  and  Westminster  Hall 
cannot  lose  its  historical  associations.  Here  stood 
Charles  I  receiving  his  death  sentence,  here  were 
condemned  More  and  Essex  and  Strafford.  Any- 
one may  visit  the  Houses  of  Parliament  on  Satur- 
days ;  that  is  to  say,  by  the  time  this  book  appears, 
I  hope  anyone  will  be  again  able  to  vist  them  on 
Saturdays.  At  the  moment  a  fear  of  the  militant 
suffragettes  has  caused  the  visits  to  be  forbidden. 
The  rooms,  lobbies,  and  halls  of  the  Lords  and  the 
Commons  are  normally  shown.  But  the  most  inter- 
esting features  to  the  stranger  are,  of  course,  the 
sessions  of  the  Peers  and  the  Commons  and  their 
debates.  Shortly  before  writing  this  I  went  to  hear 
Mr.  Arthur  Balfour  speak  upon  the  Home  Rule  Bill. 
No  one  who  has  not  heard  him  can  imagine  the  seem- 
ing artlessness  of  his  oratory.  Very  suave  and 
polished  and  kindly  it  seems,  full  of  genuine  polite- 
ness to  his  opponents,  much  as  a  man  might  converse 
at  a  dinner  table.  The  benches  are  ranged  length- 
wise on  either  side  of  the  House,  with  the  Speaker's 
desk  in  the  middle,  which  helps  to  give  an  effect  of 
privacy,  almost  of  intimacy.     Had  it  not  been  for  a 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

little  retort  by  Mr.  Ramsey  MacDonald,  the  Socialist 
Labor  leader,  to  a  certain  "  noble  Lord,"  recalling 
to  mind  the  speeches  of  Burke,  I  might  have  thought 
I  had  stumbled  into  a  private  debating  club.  Mr. 
Balfour,  however,  is  one  of  the  few  who  can  give 
these  causeries  any  charm.  For  the  most  part  the 
tameness  is  unrelieved.  England,  with  all  her  glori- 
ous past,  seems  on  every  hand  to  be  crying  out  for 
a  glorious  present  and  a  glorious  future.  In  every 
street  there  is  poverty  and  misery  stabbing  at  your 
heart.  Emigration  to  Canada,  Australia  and  the 
other  colonies  continues  apace.  But  the  House  of 
Commons  is  mildly  debating  upon  Welsh  Disestab- 
lishment!    Surely  the  awakening  cannot  be  far  off. 


[150] 


GALLERIES       AND       PICTURES 

I. 

GREAT  quarto  and  other  volumes  have  been 
written  upon  the  National  Gallery  of  Lon- 
don. To  put  it,  therefore,  within  the  confines 
of  a  chapter  seems  quite  sacrilegious.  But  even 
that  sacrilege  is  difficult  of  commission,  because  the 
National  Gallery,  so  long  as  I  have  known  it,  is  al- 
ways being  re-hung.  At  this  instant  five  rooms  are 
being  refitted  and  the  pictures  are  huddled  in  the 
basement.  The  rest  of  the  gallery  has  been  re- 
arranged so  recently  that  the  last  current  edition 
of  Baedeker  and  other  guide-books  and  catalogues 
are  superseded.  That  is,  of  course,  an  excellent 
sign,  for  it  indicates  a  vigorous  development;  but 
for  the  visitor  who  aims  to  examine  the  entire  Gal- 
lery, and  not  merely  to  gaze  at  a  few  old  friends,  the 
path  is  beset  with  difficulties.  He  finds  all  guides 
incorrect  and  full  of  seeming  lacunas,  though,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  stumbles  upon  new  treasures  as  I  did 
the  other  day  upon  a  new  Raphael  (2919),  a  Pro- 
cession to  Calvary,  acquired  in  the  spring  of  1913 

[151] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

—  a  small,  but  beautiful  picture,  full  of  the  touches 
that  make  the  master  dear  to  us. 

I  wonder  what  London  would  do  without  the  Na- 
tional Gallery !  Sometimes,  on  gloomy,  wretched, 
foggy  days,  it  seems  almost  as  though  the  brilliant 
life  and  vivid  colors  of  the  Raphaels,  the  Correg- 
gios,  the  Venetians,  must  pierce  the  gloom  like  fires 
and  assure  Englishmen  that  there  is  sunlight  still 
somewhere  upon  earth !  The  success  of  Browning's 
poetry  in  England  must  be  largely  due  to  the  same 
craving  for  color  and  life  that  the  National  Gallery 
to  some  extent  satisfies.  What  with  trysting  lovers 
and  American  sightseers,  the  Gallery  is  as  much 
frequented  as  any  in  Europe.  It  contains  (if  you 
count  the  Pope  Julius  II,  a  copy  of  the  one  in  Flor- 
ence) no  less  than  seven  Raphaels,  whereas  even  the 
Pitti  Palace,  with  its  famous  Raphael  room,  has 
only  eight. 

Fain  would  I  set  down  one  by  one  the  pictures 
in  each  room,  but  the  most  that  I  can  do  here  is  to 
indicate  a  few  of  them  in  a  cursory  glance.  (And  I 
trust  no  one  will  mistake  my  elementary  comments 
for  "  criticism,"  since  I  am  neither  Mr.  Berenson 
nor  mad.)  Room  I,  as  you  enter  it,  startles 
you  with  a  flood  of  color  and  splendid  work,  and 
at  once  transports  you  to  Italy.  Florence  and 
the  Vatican  alone  can  match  this  collection  of  mas- 
terpieces in  one  comparatively  small  chamber. 
Paolo   Uccello,    he   who   loved   perspective    so   much 

[152] 


GALLERIES   AND   PICTURES 


that  he  would  not  go  to  bed  for  absorption 
in  it,  has  a  battle-scene  here  (1416)  with  perspec- 
tive to  his  heart's  content.  But  the  most  inter- 
esting paintings  are  doubtless  those  by  the  two 
Lippi,  Lippo  and  Filippino,  father  and  son.  Lippo 
has  a  splendid  Annunciation  (589)  to  say  nothing 
of  two  other  religious  canvases  (these  pictures  are 
nearly  all  religious),  and  Filippino's  Adoration  of 
the  Magi  (1033)  has  been  long  attributed  to  Bot- 
ticelli, and  is  so  still  upon  the  label.  The  Madonna 
and  Child  with  two  Saints  (293)  is  perhaps  the  best 
of  Filippino's  work  in  this  Gallery,  and  No.  667, 
John  the  Baptist  and  six  other  Saints,  is  possibly  the 
most  perfect  of  his  father's  work  here.  Piero  di 
Cosimo's  Death  of  Procris  (698)  and  Botticelli's 
Portrait  of  a  Young  Man  (626)  are  each  in  their 
way  unforgettable.  Equally  so  is  his  Virgin  and 
Child  (275),  one  of  the  tenderest  of  all  the  Madon- 
nas, though  not  starred  by  Baedeker.  The  two  fol- 
lowing it,  Mars  and  Venus  (915)  and  the  Nativity 
(1034),  both  starred,  are  great  pictures  also,  but 
they  interest  you  less.  The  truth  is,  in  a  great 
gallery  like  the  National,  even  the  masterpieces  are 
engaged  in  a  sort  of  struggle  for  existence  —  for 
your  attention.  And  it  is  odd  what  things  survive. 
The  smallest  among  the  Raphaels  in  Room  VI,  the 
Vision  of  a  Knight  (213), —  showing  him  in  a  dream 
that  he  must  choose  in  this  world,  and  choose  early, 
between  pleasure  and  glory, —  remains  unfading  in 

[i53] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

your  memory.  No  doubt  the  Child  of  Urbino,  as 
the  painter  has  been  sentimentally  called,  must  have 
made  the  choice  long  before  he  came  to  Rome  where 
his  own  glory  came  to  him  so  brimmingly. 

Room  II  is  almost  wholly  given  over  to  triptychs 
and  altar-pieces  by  Orcagna  and  Benozzo  Gozzoli. 
One  Fra  Angelico  (1406),  an  Annunciation,  is  hung 
too  high,  and  Botticelli's  Adoration  of  the  Magi 
(592),  though  not  a  large  picture,  contains  a  whole 
world  of  life  and  color.  Room  III  contains  some 
beautiful  Ghirlandajos  and  Andrea  del  Sartos  and 
Room  IV,  though  closed  for  re-hanging  as  I  write, 
did  and  probably  will  again  contain  Leonardo  da 
Vinci's  Madonna,  a  copy  of  "  La  Vierge  aux 
Rochers  "  of  the  Louvre.  I  need  hardly  say  it  con- 
tains much  else  besides. 

Baedeker,  I  see,  recommends  a  visit  to  Room  XXV 
(now  XXIX),  to  the  Guido  Reni  *  and  Correggio 
pictures  before  proceeding  to  the  Raphaels.  In 
that  I  am  bound  to  say  I  disagree.  One  cannot  as- 
sume unlimited  time  on  the  part  of  the  reader,  and 
where  time  is  limited  the  Raphaels  in  Room  VI 
should  certainly  be  seen  first,  even  if  the  rest  must 
be  slurred.  It  would  doubtless  be  an  error  to 
omit  Correggio's  Mercury  Instructing  Cupid  in  the 
Presence  of  Venus  (10),  or  his  Ecce  Homo  (15), 
and  most  of  us  would  willingly  give  Raphael's  Pope 
Julius    II    for   either    of   them.     But    all    the   same 

*  The  Guido  Reni  pictures  are  now  in  Room  XXVII. 

[154] 


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O 


GALLERIES    AND    PICTURES 

Room  VI  is  of  the  first  importance.  The  Vision  of  a 
Knight  (213)  already  mentioned,  and  the  Cartoon 
for  it,  hanging  just  below,  together  form  a  whole 
curriculum  in  the  art  of  great  painting.  The  Ma- 
donna degli  Ansidei  (1171),  accounted  the  greatest 
Raphael  in  this  gallery,  is  a  masterpiece  of  drawing 
and  color,  as  perfect  as  any  of  this  master's  —  here 
or  in  Italy.  It  cost  the  Gallery,  we  are  told  in  the 
guide-books,  £70,000.  To  me,  however,  it  does  not 
compare  in  appeal  with  the  Dresden  Madonna ;  but 
I  am  afraid  that  Dresden  Madonna  is  my  King 
Charles's  head.  But  even  here  there  are  things  upon 
which  one  may  linger.  There  is  that  Vision  of  a 
Knight ;  there  is  the  St.  Catherine  of  Alexandria 
(168),  truly  magical  painting,  and  even  the  so- 
called  Garvagh  Madonna  (744),  which  seems  so  much 
more  a  shrine  and  altar  to  maternity  than  the  larger 
picture.  Of  the  Procession  to  Calvary  (2919)  I 
have  already  spoken,  and  the  Madonna  of  the  Tower 
cannot  be  passed  over.  The  Circumcision,  by  Luca 
Signorelli  (1128),  an  exquisite  group  picture,  is  well 
worthy  of  this  room. 

The  long  hall  known  as  Room  VII  is  filled  with 
Venetians,  from  rare  Giorgiones  to  broad  canvases 
of  Veronese,  that  remind  you  of  the  walls  and  ceil- 
ings of  the  Doge's  Palace,  where  that  prolific  artist 
printed  as  lavishly.  Titian,  Tintoretto  and  Sebas- 
tiano  del  Piombo  shine  forth  from  the  sides  of  this 
room   as   do   the  Raphaels   from  the  one   adjoining. 

[i55] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 


One  of  the  most  beautiful  Koly  Families  in  the  gal- 
lery (and  there  are  many  here)  is  that  of  Titian 
(No.  4),  and  his  Ariosto  is  both  a  poet  and  a  little 
mad.  The  glowing  vitality  of  his  Bacchus  and 
Ariadne  (35)  floods  that  side  of  the  room  Avith 
movement  and  color.  All  nature  seems  to  partici- 
pate. But  Sebastiano  del  Piombo's  Raising  of  Laz- 
arus (No.  1),  as  far  as  the  Antipodes  in  theme  from 
the  Bacchus,  in  a  manner  vies  with  that  picture. 
This,  too,  is  full  of  life,  of  wild  mortal  wonder  and 
admiration  of  the  miracle.  Titian's  Venus  and 
Adonis  (37)  will  be  remembered  for  the  same  reason 
that  Shakespeare's  poem  on  the  subject  remains  in 
the  memory,  and  Tintoretto's  Origin  of  the  Milky 
Way  (1313)  is  equally  unforgettable.  The  oppo- 
site wall  holds  some  Moroni  portraits,  including  the 
famous  Moroni  Tailor  (697),  that  all  the  world 
has  delighted  in  for  centuries.  Among  the  works 
of  Giovanni  and  Gentile  Bellini  on  this  wall  is  the 
"masterly  portrait"  (189)  as  Ruskin  called  it,  by 
Giovanni,  of  the  Doge  Leonardo  Loredano,  almost  as 
famous  as  the  Tailor.  Both  Doge  and  Tailor  were 
wise  in  their  choice  of  painters  —  if  the  tailor  had  a 
choice.  And  no  one  should  pass  over  Giovanni  Bel- 
lini's Madonna  of  the  Pomegranate  (280).  Room 
VIII  has  some  Mantegnas,  but  the  place  to  see  Man- 
tegna  is  at  Hampton  Court.  This  room  is  dedicated 
to  Crevelli,  and  Crevelli's  Madonnas  are  worth  see- 
ing, though  I  cannot  pretend  to  have  spent  much 

[156] 


GALLERIES    AND    PICTURES 

time  over  them.  Room  IX  is  filled  particularly 
with  the  art  of  Veronese  and  of  that  lover  of  the 
open,  Canaletto.  No  one  has  so  faithfully  painted 
the  Grand  and  other  canals  of  Venice  as  Canaletto, 
and  a  visit  to  these  pictures,  could  it  be  combined 
with  sunshine,  would  prove  almost  equivalent  to 
drifting  in  a  gondola  in  that  glorious  city.  The 
foremost  picture  of  Veronese  here  is  (294)  the 
Family  of  Darius  at  the  Feet  of  Alexander.  Ruskin 
called  it  the  most  precious  Paul  Veronese  in  the 
world,  and  even  the  Venetian  clothes  of  Darius  and 
his  family  fail  to  impair  the  beauty  of  the  picture. 
The  young  Alexander  looks  remarkably  like  a  young 
patrician  Englishman  of  the  time  when  young  pa- 
trician Englishmen  pursued  glory  rather  than  pleas- 
ure. 

The  Dutch  and  Flemish  pictures  in  the  National 
Gallery  form  a  magnificent  collection  as  rich  and 
varied  as  the  French  and  German  is  small  and  in- 
significant. Rembrandt  is  splendidly  represented 
with  no  less  than  seventeen  works,  and  Van  Dyck, 
Rubens,  Hals  and  De  Hooch,  not  to  mention  Cuyp, 
Hobbema  and  Ruysdael,  quite  hold  their  own. 
These,  like  the  Italians,  have  been  repeatedly  re- 
hung,  and  the  Rembrandts,  long  in  Room  X,  are  now 
in  Room  XIV.  Van  Dyck  and  Rubens  now  dominate 
Room  X.  The  Equestrian  portrait  of  Charles  I  ar- 
rests your  gaze  immediately  as  you  enter,  and  so 
completely  altered  is  the  scene  and  atmosphere  after 

[i57] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 

the  Tuscans,  Umbrians  and  Venetians,  that  it  is  best 
not  to  look  upon  the  Dutch  on  the  same  day.  Even 
the  horse  that  Charles  bestrides  is  so  aristocratic 
in  appearance  that  one  can  readily  understand 
Oliver  Cromwell's  distaste  for  the  entire  picture. 
He  sold  it  from  Somerset  House,  where  it  originally 
hung,  for  £150,  but  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  found 
it  in  Munich  a  couple  of  generations  later  and 
brought  it  back  to  England.  As  to  the  portrait  of 
Cornelius  Van  der  Geest  (52)  it  is  surpassed  by 
perhaps  no  other  in  the  gallery.  Here  also  are  a 
number  of  Van  Dycks  from  the  collection  of  Lord 
Wharton  as  well  as  a  series  of  paintings  by  Rubens, 
who  seems  to  have  filled  nearly  every  gallery  in 
Europe  and  America  with  his  work.  The  Chapeau 
de  Poile  (852),  a  wonderful  rendering  of  a  lady 
with  a  hat,  always  on  students'  days  has  many  easels 
before  it.  Others  here  that  appeal  to  the  imagina- 
tion are  the  Rape  of  the  Sabines  (38),  The  Triumph 
of  Silenus  (853),  The  Judgment  of  Paris  (194), 
and  the  Triumph  of  Julius  Caesar  (278)  after  Man- 
tegna's  Cartoons.  One  cannot  imagine  living  with 
Rubens  canvases  anywhere  but  in  a  palace.  The 
genre-pictures  of  David  Teniers,  his  pupil,  however, 
are  lovely  harmonies,  like  the  Old  Woman  peeling  a 
Pear  (805),  or  the  Musical  Party  (154)  which  to 
see  is  to  covet  for  our  own  particular  dwelling-place. 
But  my  own  covetings  in  pictures  are  perhaps  ab- 
surdly humble.     It  is  not  Raphael's  Madonna  degli 

[158] 


GALLERIES   AND    PICTURES 


Ansidci  that  I  would  carry  away  with  me ;  that  I  am 
content  to  leave  in  the  gallery.  But  Peter  de 
Hooch's  Interior  of  a  Dutch  House  (834)  I  would 
hang  where  my  daily  life  flows  on,  as  a  symbol  of, 
and  an  inspiration  to,  peace  and  tranquillity. 

The  Rembrandts  are,  as  has  been  said,  in  Room 
XIV,  and  the  last  time  I  was  there  you  could  not  see 
the  pictures  for  the  easels  and  the  students  that 
swarmed  about  them.  These  students  are  of  all 
ages  from  seventeen  to  seventy,  and  it  explains  why 
so  many  color  and  brush  dealers  flourish  in  great 
cities.  The  fecundity  of  genius  has  always  been  a 
source  of  wonder.  Granted  a  man  is  capable  of 
perfection  —  once,  sometimes.  But  how  can  one 
man  be  capable  of  so  much  perfection?  Hazlitt  in 
his  eloquent  essay  on  "  Genius "  endeavors  to  ex- 
plain it.  "  So  much,"  he  says,  "  do  Rembrandt's 
pictures  savor  of  the  soul  and  body  of  reality,  that 
the  thoughts  seem  identical  with  the  objects  —  if 
there  had  been  the  least  question  what  he  should  have 
done,  or  how  he  should  do  it,  or  how  far  he  had  suc- 
ceeded, it  would  have  spoiled  everything."  Reality 
is  the  key  —  it  is,  so  to  speak,  enshrined  in  the  Dutch 
pictures,  but  particularly  in  Rembrandt.  I  need 
not  number  them,  for  they  are  unmistakable.  The 
brilliant  sketch  of  a  Woman  Bathing  faces  you  and 
glows  from  the  wall  —  when  there  are  not  three 
easels  in  front  of  it.  And  those  portraits,  so  simple- 
seeming,  the  despair  of  copyists,  that  hold  you  spell- 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 


bound  like  a  drama  or  fine  romance !  But  it  is  real- 
ity, the  greatest  of  all  romances.  "  The  Old  Lady," 
"The  Jew  Merchant,"  "The  Old  Man,"  "The 
Rabbi,"  "  The  Burgomaster,"  "  The  Portrait  of  a 
Woman,"  "  Tobias  and  the  Angel  " —  I  need  not 
enumerate  them.  I  always  look  at  the  Cimabue  Ma- 
donna in  the  vestibule  outside,  but  the  Rembrandt 
Room  is  where  I  spend  what  time  I  have  for  pictures, 
for  this  is  reality,  life.  And  many  another  picture 
by  the  masters  that  fill  these  Dutch  and  Flemish 
rooms  comes  very  near  to  Rembrandt  in  finish,  insight 
and  power.  It  is  only  for  reasons  of  space  that  no 
more  of  them  are  mentioned,  and,  after  all,  the  best 
enumerator  is  the  official  catalogue.  For  given  a 
certain  experience,  who  can  tell  us  what  we  ought 
to  like?  Upon  some  masterpieces,  however,  all  the 
world  is  agreed.  That  is  what  constitutes  the  clas- 
sics in  every  art  — :  the  universal  agreement  upon 
their  worth. 

Velasquez  is  another  of  those  objects  of  universal 
agreement.  There  is  not  much  of  his  work  outside 
of  Spain,  yet  Stafford  House,  Grosvenor  House, 
Dorchester  House  and  Apsley  House  have  some  of 
it,  the  Wallace  Collection  has  more,  and  the  National 
Gallery  owns  at  least  nine  of  his  pictures.  The  Ad- 
miral Pulido-Pareja  (1315)  is  undoubtedly  the 
greatest  Velasquez  in  the  National  Gallery,  and  the 
Philip  IV  (1129),  the  "  Rokeby  "  Venus  (2057)  and 
the  Boar  Hunt    (197)    are  scarcely  inferior.     The 

[160] 


GALLERIES   AND   PICTURES 

Boar  Hunt  is  really  a  picture  of  all  Spain  in 
the  painter's  time.  The  Betrothal  (14)34),  and  the 
Sketch  of  a  Duel  in  the  Prado  (1376)  as  well  as  the 
two  religious  pictures,  Christ  at  the  Column  (1148) 
and  Christ  in  the  House  of  Martha  (1375)  are  other 
notable  examples  in  the  list  of  Velasquez.  Murillo's 
Holy  Family,  A  Boy  Drinking,  and  three  other  fine 
paintings,  as  well  as  some  by  Zurbaran,  Lo  Spag- 
noletto  and  one  or  two  others,  complete  this  marvel- 
ous  Spanish  room. 

Across  the  vestibule,  in  the  left  wing,  is  that 
great  assemblage  of  English  names  that  are  perhaps 
more  intimately  familiar  to  us  than  those  we  have 
left  behind :  Reynolds,  Gainsborough,  Hogarth, 
Crome,  Constable,  Lawrence,  Turner  —  almost  all 
that  makes  up  the  history  of  British  art.  Turner, 
to  be  sure,  is  best  seen  at  the  Tate  Gallery,  almost 
half  of  which  is  devoted  to  his  titanic  output.  But 
in  the  works  of  the  others  the  National  Gallery  is 
rich  almost  beyond  the  dream  of  avarice.  Often  I 
have  wandered  about  among  the  Italians,  and  even 
among  the  Dutch  painters,  feeling  that  after  all  I 
was  an  alien  to  them.  But  among  the  English 
masters  you  feel  yourself  at  home.  The  painters 
and  their  subjects  are  all  part  and  parcel  of  Eng- 
lish history, —  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  background.  I 
do  not  know  exactly  how  to  class  Holbein's  Ambassa- 
dors and  Christina  of  Denmark.  From  their  posi- 
tion in  the  gallery  (Room  XX)  they  are  regarded 

[x6x] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

as  English  pictures,  but  actually,  I  suppose,  Hol- 
bein is  one  of  the  few  Germans  which  the  gallery 
possesses.  But  his  neighbors  here  are  Lely,  Ramsay, 
and  Hogarth  with  a  series  of  pictures  so  human  that 
even  inferior  painting  can  be  forgiven  him.  The 
captivating  Shrimp  Girl  (1162),  the  portraits  of 
"Polly  Peacham  "  (1161),  his  sister,  his  servants 
and  himself,  including  the  realistic  novel  that  is  em- 
bodied in  the  six  pictures  entitled  Marriage  a  la 
Mode,  are  all  of  the  essence  of  England.  Crome's 
Mousehold  Heath  (689)  in  Room  XXI  is  ranked  by 
some  as  the  finest  of  English  pictures.  I  am  not 
learned  enough  in  these  matters  to  add  my  opinion, 
but  to  me  the  English  country-side  in  all  its  gener- 
ous verdure  and  in  all  its  tenderness,  unlike  any 
other  in  the  world,  is  magically  depicted  by  men 
like  Crome,  Gainsborough,  Constable,  Wilson,  all  of 
whom  may  be  studied  in  this  and  the  following  rooms. 
Room  XXII  contains  some  famous  Turners,  but,  as 
I  have  said,  the  Tate  Gallery,  is  his  proper  home. 
As  for  Room  XXV,  it  is  filled  with  the  portraits  of 
Reynolds ;  the  Dr.  Johnson  that  we  know  so  well 
from  numerous  photogravures,  the  Admiral  Keppel, 
the  celebrated  Mrs.  Siddons,  and  how  many  more  be- 
sides !  All  are  of  interest,  even  to  the  least  of  them ! 
Of  the  French  collection  in  Rooms  XXVI  and 
XXVIII  I  shall  not  speak  at  length,  for  it  is  com- 
paratively unimportant.  You  see  a  Corot  or  two, 
a    Claude,    a   Nicolas   Poussin   and   Rosa    Bonheur's 

[162] 


GALLERIES    AND    PICTURES 

spirited  Horse  Fair,  which  quite  overshadows  some 
of  its  neighbors. 

n. 

Of  the  National  Portrait  Gallery  I  hardly  dare  to 
say  anything  in  the  midst  of  a  chapter.  It  is  one 
of  the  finest  things  that  London  has  to  offer  and,  to 
my  thinking,  one  of  the  most  interesting  galleries 
in  the  world.  It  assembles  under  one  roof  the  sort 
of  collection  that  in  other  countries  is  diffused 
throughout  the  land.  It  is  as  characteristic,  as 
unique  in  its  way,  as  Westminster  Abbey.  Every 
one  of  the  sixteen  hundred  or  so  of  portraits  here 
is  of  interest,  though  of  course  comparatively  few 
are  masterpieces  of  portraiture.  But  one  scarcely 
asks  for  that.  What,  for  instance,  does  it  matter 
whether  or  not  Hazlitt's  portrait  of  his  friend 
Charles  Lamb,  that  dark,  boyish,  whimsical  face,  is 
or  is  not  equal  to,  say,  Van  Dyck's  Queen  Henrietta 
as  a  work  of  art?  A  graceful  and  a  bewitching  por- 
trait is  that  of  Charles  First's  Queen,  but  I  would 
rather  gaze  on  the  face  of  Lamb.  The  bust  of 
Thackeray  as  a  schoolboy  rejoices  you  more  than 
Kneller's  Sarah  Jennings,  and  I  would  rather  see 
Phillips's  Blake  or  Severn's  Keats  than  early  Han- 
overian Kings  by  abler  hands.  And  to  look  upon 
the  "  Chandos  "  Shakespeare  is  suddenly  to  rise  in 
stature  and  self-esteem.  This  portrait,  so  convinc- 
ingly insignificant,  will  make  any  one  of  us  believe 

[163] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

that  he  could  have  written  Shakespeare's  plays  if 
only  he  had  the  mind !  Here,  too,  you  may  discover 
why  Ben  Jonson  bore  so  great  a  reputation  as  a  wit 
(his  mocking  mouth  tells  the  tale),  and  why  so  fine 
a  brain  as  Bacon's  stooped  to  meanness:  to  descend 
from  a  sire  like  Sir  Nicholas  Bacon  (judging  from 
his  porcine  features  in  the  portrait)  was  a  heavy 
handicap  even  for  Verulam.  How  amazed  you  are 
to  find  that  Bunyan  looks  so  precisely  like  your 
butcher,  and  how  uncanny  is  the  resemblance  of 
Henry  VIII  to  those  sleek,  mud-loving  fishes  seldom 
seen  alive  anywhere  except  in  the  Naples  Aquarium ! 
All  these  and  hundreds  more  reveal  their  lives  to  you 
in  the  Portrait  Gallery.  I  should  regard  it  as  a 
privation  not  to  know  the  National  Gallery,  but  not 
to  have  seen  the  National  Portrait  Gallery  in  Lon- 
don would  be  no  less  than  a  calamity. 

in. 

The  Tate  Gallery  would  have  satisfied  the  aspira- 
tions of  a  Cecil  Rhodes.  English,  all  English,  that 
was  his  dream,  and  that  is  the  Tate  Gallery. 
Largely,  it  is,  so  Mr.  E.  V.  Lucas  says,  as  though 
a  procession  of  old  Academies  had  filed  through,  and 
some  of  these  old  Academies,  I  may  add,  resemble 
the  new  Academies.  But  Mr.  Lucas  wrote  before 
the  Turner  wing  was  added,  which  makes  a  deal  of 
difference.  To-day  to  know  Turner,  perhaps  the 
greatest  impressionist  the  world  has  produced,  you 

[164] 


GALLERIES    AND    PICTURES 

must  go  to  the  Tate.  Nine  rooms,  no  less,  are 
given  over  to  this  vast  collection  of  one  man's  work ; 
the  very  bulk  of  it  is  over-powering.  But  it  has  a 
profounder  interest,  indeed,  a  too  profound  inter- 
est. It  tends  to  dwarf  the  rest  of  the  gallery,  and 
even  Watts,  with  an  entire  room  to  himself,  seems 
puny  by  comparison.  Perhaps,  however,  that  is  only 
just. 

Sir  Henry  Tate,  who  presented  the  building  to  the 
nation  as  the  inscription  on  his  bust  reads,  in  thanks- 
giving for  a  prosperous  business  career  of  sixty 
years,  chose  one  of  the  dreariest  spots  in  London 
for  his  gift.  The  drab  waterfront  of  Pimlico,  in 
the  region  of  Vauxhall  Bridge,  extends  on  either 
side,  and  the  fine  Corinthian  columns  face  no  more 
aesthetically  minded  folk  than  the  decayed  watermen 
of  the  crawling  river-barges,  and  the  occasional 
stevedore  of  the  region.  Yet  some  cf  the  most  in- 
teresting pictures  in  England  are  housed  in  the 
Tate,  and  what  with  Whistler,  Turner  and  Watts, 
some  of  the  best.  Leaving  Turner  aside  for  the 
moment,  interest  certainly  predominates  over  merit. 
Twice,  for  instance,  appears  that  excellent  pair,  My 
Uncle  Toby  and  the  Widow  Wadman,  and  once 
Yorick,  buying  gloves  from  the  grisette  in  Paris. 
Beatrix  is  knighting  Henry  Esmond,  with  the  very 
look  of  the  Trix  we  know,  admire  and  dislike ;  and 
the  portrait  of  Mrs.  William  Morris  by  Rossetti 
shows  us  what  an  influence  that  lady's  exquisite  fea- 

[165] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

tures  must  have  had  on  the  entire  pre-Raphaelite 
school.  These  are  personalities  rather  than  great 
art,  but  who  has  ever  pretended  that  we  of  this 
age  are  not  interested  in  personalities?  Similarly, 
one  would  hardly  class  the  three  or  four  Blake  pic- 
tures in  Room  I  with  the  great  Italians.  But  the 
allegorical  picture  of  man's  existence  and  the  spirit- 
ual form  of  Pitt  (1110)  are  highly  interesting  to 
the  student  of  Blake,  if  not  to  the  student  of  art. 
There  are  here  canvases  of  Eastlake,  Landseer,  Mul- 
ready,  Burne-Jones,  already  known  to  most  of  us 
from  numerous  reproductions.  Baedeker,  for  in- 
stance, declines  to  star  No.  1771  in  Room  III,  King 
Cophetua  and  the  Beggar  Maid.  But  we  star  it 
for  ourselves,  none  the  less,  for  such  beauty  as  it  has 
touches  us  in  deeper  quarters  than  mere  cold  appre- 
ciation. We  know  the  legend  and  perhaps  Ten- 
nyson's poem  from  childhood,  and  that  is  a  power- 
ful magnifying  lens  for  merit.  These  rooms  are 
filled  with  many  pictures  of  like  appeal.  Rossetti's 
Ancilla  Domini,  his  Mariana,  who  was  none  other 
than  Mrs.  William  Morris  (the  actual  portrait  is 
also  here),  the  Beata  Beatrix  (1279)  who  was  really 
the  painter's  own  wife,  lost  to  him  in  1862;  Ford 
Madox  Brown's  Christ  Washing  St.  Peter's  Feet 
(1394),  Millais'  Boyhood  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh 
(1691)  and  Fred  Walker's  Harbour  of  Refuge 
(1391)   or  The  Vagrants   (1209) — these  are  some 

of  the  old  friends  we  meet  and  greet  in  this  gallery. 

[166] 


GALLERIES    AND   PICTURES 

Fred  Walker,  in  turn,  reminds  us  of  Little  Billee, 
for  do  we  not  remember  the  two  young  geniuses  play- 
ing at  cup  and  ball  as  drawn  by  Du  Maurier  in 
"  Trilby  "?  There  are  no  pictures  labeled  "  William 
Bagot,"  but  surely  Little  Billee's  work  is  here.  It 
must  be  here.  And  therein  lies  our  interest  in  this 
gallery.  Now  and  then,  to  be  sure,  you  meet  a 
masterpiece  that  is  one  of  its  own  right,  such  as 
Whistler's  Old  Battersea  Bridge  (1959),  a  poem  in 
colors,  a  nocturne,  a  fantasy,  yet  as  real  as  the 
bridge   itself. 

The  vast  array  of  the  Turners  requires  a  book  to 
itself,  and  I  shall  not  even  pretend  to  enumerate 
them.  I  have  said  the}'  are  overwhelming,  but  that 
is  a  vague  word.  They  have  the  peculiarity  of  ac- 
tually modifying  your  way  of  looking  on  life,  on  na- 
ture, on  the  past.  Look  upon  the  Dido  and  ./Eneas, 
and  you  will  never  more  picture  Dido's  realm  but 
in  Turner's  terms,  nor  will  Hannibal  cross  the  Alps 
but  as  Turner  painted  that  dreadful  epic,  and  the 
"  Fighting  Temeraire  "  or  the  Death  of  Nelson  will 
cling  to  and  modify  your  imagination.  The  Thames 
scenes,  the  sea  pieces,  the  landscapes,  all  seem  to  be 
the  work  of  a  giant. 

G.  F.  Watts,  with  his  more  obvious  and  premedi- 
tated aim  at  greatness,  has  painted  a  series  of  large 
and  interesting  pictures,  but  they  arc  far  from  affect- 
ing you  like  the  Turners.  He  stopped  at  nothing  in 
choosing  his  themes,  and  in  the  Watts  Room  (XVII) 

[167] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE    PICTURE 

you  find  large  canvases  with  such  titles  as  The  All- 
pervading,  Chaos,  Love  and  Life,  Death  Crowning 
Innocence,  Love  and  Death,  and  so  on.  But  for  the 
most  part  they  fail  to  arouse  your  enthusiasm. 
While  such  pictures  as  "  For  He  Had  Great  Pos- 
sessions," or  "  She  Shall  Be  Called  Woman  "  seem 
like  magazine  illustrations.  But  for  all  that  the 
Watts  collection  is  of  interest. 

I  can  say  little  here  about  such  lesser  though 
admirable  collections  as  the  one  at  the  Dulwich  pic- 
ture gallery,  because  Dulwich  is  five  miles  from  Lon- 
don, and  when  it  comes  to  traveling  in  search  of 
pictures,  the  enthusiastic  seeker  will  doubtless  know 
more  about  them  than  I  can  tell  him.  I  may  note  in 
passing,  however,  that  the  fifteen  paintings  by  Cuyp 
in  this  little  gallery  are  well  worth  the  brief  jour- 
ney —  only  twenty  minutes  from  Victoria.  There 
are  many  more  of  the  best  Dutch  masters  here,  in- 
cluding two  Rembrandts,  to  say  nothing  of  a  Ve- 
lasquez and  some  Murillos. 

But  the  flower  of  the  smaller  galleries  in  or  about 
London  is  the  Wallace  Collection,  in  Manchester 
Square. 

This  is  that  "  Gaunt  House "  that  we  know  so 
intimately  from  "  Vanity  Fair,"  and  if  Thackeray 
painted  the  great  Marquis  of  Steyne  with  a  satyr- 
like leer,  it  is  not  for  us  to  refute  him,  even  though 
the  bust  of  the  Fourth  Marquis  of  Hertford,  on  the 

stairway,   shows   a   very   trim   head  with   a   fashion- 

L168I 


GALLERIES    AND    PICTURES 

able  wisp  of  Van  Dyck  beard.  The  opening  of  Hert- 
ford House  as  a  public  museum  and  gallery  was 
a  vindication  of  Major  Pendennis.  Tuft-hunter 
though  the  Major  doubtless  was,  he  can  nevertheless 
be  forgiven  for  seeking  entrance  as  often  as  pos- 
sible to  this  treasure-house.  It  is  the  sort  of  private 
residence  that  in  a  Lytton  or  Disraeli  novel  would 
be  deemed  a  florid  exaggeration,  yet  any  exaggera- 
tion would  fall  short  of  the  truth. 

I  shall  not  weary  the  reader  with  a  catalogue,  but 
some  of  the  finest  pictures  in  the  world  are  here. 
Velasquez'  Lady  with  a  Fan  (88),  Van  Dyck's  Phil- 
ippe le  Roy  (94),  Rembrandt's  two  portraits,  Jan 
Pellicome  and  his  wife  (82  and  90),  his  Unmerciful 
Servant  (86)  and  Frans  Hals'  Laughing  Cavalier 
(84)  would  be  enough  to  make  the  fortune  of  any 
gallery.  There  are  some  750  pictures  and  nearly 
all  of  them  are  of  importance,  and  each  one  appeals 
in  a  special  way.  Whoever  collected  them  pleased 
his  own  eye  first  of  all.  These  lovely  Dutch  pic- 
tures, little  canvases  many  of  them,  smaller  than  any 
in  the  other  galleries,  pictures  meant  to  be  lived  with, 
as  the  tiny  masterpieces  by  Gabriel  Metsu,  would 
seem  lost  in  a  huge  gallery.  But  there  are  larger, 
too,  Cuyps  and  Hobbemas  and  portraits  by  Mierevelt 
that  are  marvels  of  craftsmanship.  There  are  some 
beautiful  Reynolds  and  Gainsborough  portraits, 
notably  those  of  Perdita  Robinson,  George  IV's 
friend  of  the  pretty,  empty  face,  and  there  is  here 

[169] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

a  host  of  Venetian  scenes  by  Guardi  and  by  Cana- 
letto. 

In  the  work  of  certain  French  masters  this  col- 
lection makes  up  the  void  felt  at  the  National  Gal- 
lery, and  in  some  respects  surpasses  the  Louvre. 
The  frail  Fragonards,  the  incredible  little  Watteaus, 
the  long  series  of  Boucher  and  the  childishly  sweet 
heads  of  Greuze,  so  remote  from  the  Dutch  masters 
that  naturally  harmonize  with  their  English  environ- 
ment, seem  to  carry  the  aroma  of  a  brief,  bygone 
theatrical  era,  given  to  sensualism  and  insincerity, 
that  left  no  trace  but  these  pictures. 

There  are  three  separate  catalogues  sold  of  the 
Wallace  Collection :  a  catalogue  of  pictures,  of  the 
Armoury,  and  of  the  objects  of  art.  This  shows 
the  extent  of  the  collection.  You  may  think  you  have 
seen  the  last  word  in  armor  at  the  Tower.  But 
the  Wallace  armor  and  weapons  make  the  other  seem 
like  a  crude  rehearsal.  The  snuff-boxes,  the  minia- 
tures, the  Sevres  and  majolica  ware,  the  great  as- 
semblage of  rare  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  century 
French  furniture,  and  I  hardly  know  what  else  be- 
sides, all  tend  to  bear  out  Bliicher's  famous  and  la- 
conic remark  when  first  he  set  eyes  on  London, — 
"  What  a  city  to  loot !  " 


[170] 


XI 


HERE       AND       THERE 


OFTEN  I  am  haunted  by  a  dim  woodcut  in  an 
ancient  copy  of  "  Robinson  Crusoe  "  that  has 
doubtless  long  since  fallen  to  dust.  Robin- 
son in  old  age  finds  himself  in  dangerous  circum- 
stances and  resolves  "  to  sell  his  life  dearly."  Grim 
and  troubled  were  the  imperfect  features  of  that 
wooden  Robinson !  And  now  as  this  book  ap- 
proaches its  end,  and  I  survey  London,  I  too  am  dis- 
mayed —  by  the  appalling  extent  of  what  remains 
untouched.  Grimly  I,  too,  would  sell  my  life  dearly 
and  write  a  score  of  chapters  on  as  many  places  did 
the  scope  of  the  book  permit  it.  But  I  cannot  even 
begin  to  write  of,  say,  the  British  Museum,  for 
fear  lest  I  should  never  be  able  to  cease. 

Whosoever  has  not  passed  a  few  days  in  its  Read- 
ing Room  has  missed  one  of  the  solid  pleasures  of 
life.  The  ecstasy  of  knowing  that  all  you  can  pos- 
sibly want  is  there  to  be  had !  Only  those  who  habit- 
ually use  libraries  know  what  that  means.  The 
guide  books  say  there  are  forty  miles  of  shelves  in 
the  Museum.  But  that  seems  to  me  a  less  impres- 
sive fact  than  the  900  volumes  of  catalogue  —  where 

[171] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE    PICTURE 

every  author,  however  humble,  may  find  himself 
grouped  with  the  immortals!  Nothing  could  be 
more  flattering  to  vanity  or  consoling  to  neglect.  A 
fine  flame-like  excitement  seems  to  burn  about  the 
heads  of  the  readers,  sitting  in  roomy  chairs  at  com- 
fortable desks,  surrounded  by  priceless  volumes,  per- 
haps, that  they  have  traversed  half  a  world  to  con- 
sult. Though,  of  course  there  are  a  plenty  in  this 
circular  paradisiacal  room  without  that  gem-like 
flame,  the  literary  hacks  of  London,  all  the  Grub 
Street  of  the  day  that  George  Gissing  has  depicted 
with  so  much  unrejoicing  realism.  I  make  it  a  prac- 
tice when  working  in  the  Museum  to  take  my  tea  in 
its  refreshment  room.  The  talk  you  overhear  there 
ranges  from  Ceramics  to  Cyrenaics,  from  Nineveh  to 
nonsense;  and  though  the  tea  is  not  good,  the  faces 
are  of  absorbing  interest.  The  tea-room  lies  off 
the  Egyptian  Galleries  and  outside  the  door  are  a 
few  silent  policemen  and  a  hundred  silent  Pharaohs 
and  their  gods  in  granite  and  basalt,  with  calm 
sphinx-like  features,  gazing  into  eternity.  From 
their  vantage  point  of  five  thousand  years  they  seem 
to  say  unemotionally,  "  Hurry  through  your  heavy 
tea-cake  if  you  will  for  another  hour's  reading;  it 
is  all  one  to  the  eternal  silence  of  the  universe."  To 
write  of  the  contents  of  the  Museum  would  be  to 
write  a  history  of  civilization,  even  of  pre-historic 
civilization,  and  I  think  I  shall  not  attempt  that  here. 

From  the  Elgin  marbles  to  the  least  important  auto- 

[172] 


Copyright  by  Strrro-'Tr.ntl  Co. 


The  British  Museum 


HERE   AND    THERE 


graph  everything  is  of  interest.  All  are  on  a  level. 
Hampden,  P}rm  and  Cromwell's  signatures  repose  in 
the  same  case  with  that  of  King  Charles  I.  Richard- 
son and  Fielding  are  neighbors  to  Dickens  and 
Thackeray,  and  Luther,  Calvin  and  Michael  Angelo 
repose  together  with  Goethe,  Kant  and  Wagner. 
The  manuscripts,  the  statuary,  the  archeological 
collections,  the  gems,  the  bronzes,  the  vases,  the  — 
but,  as  I  have  said,  it  is  useless  to  begin.  Sir  John 
Cotton  began  the  Museum  by  presenting  his  own 
collection  to  the  nation  exactly  two  hundred  and 
thirteen  years  ago.  Another  couple  of  centuries 
and  all  Bloomsbury  should  be  one  vast  stretch  of 
British  Museum. 

Already  the  population  of  Bloomsbury  is  largely 
composed  of  those  that  eddy  round  and  round  the 
Museum,  the  students  from  overseas,  the  Indian 
Babu,  the  continental  scholar  writing  his  magnum 
or  other  opus,  and,  generally,  all  who  fill  the  board- 
ing houses  of  which  Bloomsbury  almost  entirely  con- 
sists. London  University  in  Gower  Street  is  not  far 
away,  and  students  of  both  Museum  and  University 
form  a  continuous  population,  a  Latin  Quarter 
about  as  different  from  the  Parisian  one  as  can  well 
be  imagined.  Bloomsbury  Square,  Russell  Square, 
Bedford  Square,  Woburn  Square,  Red  Lion,  Meck- 
lenburg, Brunswick  Squares  —  the  region  abounds  in 
them,  as  though  to  supply  the  air  for  the  man}7  in- 
habitants of  each  house.      But  these  dwellings  were 

[i73] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

not  always  boarding  houses.  Literary  and  other 
associations  cluster  thickly  about  them.  Mrs.  Sid- 
dons,  Lord  Eldon,  and  Millais  (at  No.  87),  once 
lived  in  Gower  Street,  and  Woburn  Square  holds,  in 
Christ  Church,  a  memorial  of  Burne-Jones'  design 
to  Christina  Rossetti,  who  however,  lived  in  Torring- 
ton  Square,  No.  30.  Red  Lion  Square  is  intimately 
connected  with  nineteenth-century  art  and  litera- 
ture, for  William  Morris  practiced  his  various  crafts 
at  No.  9,  and  at  No.  17  once  lived  Burne-Jones  and 
Rossetti.  And  in  Theobald's  Road  near  by,  at  No. 
22,  Benjamin  Disraeli  was  born  in  1804.  By 
Lamb's  Conduit  you  come  to  Great  Ormond  Street, 
once  a  home  of  Macaulay  (at  No.  50),  as  also  of 
Chancellor  Thurlow  (at  No.  44) ;  and  coming  to 
Guilford  Street,  we  face  one  of  the  most  picturesque 
institutions  in  the  world,  the  Foundling  Hospital, 
established  by  Coram  in  1739.  The  hospital  is 
flanked  by  Mecklenburg  Square  and  Brunswick 
Square.  In  Hunter  Street  leading  from  Brunswick 
Square  (No.  54)  John  Ruskin  was  born;  and  at  48 
Doughty  Street,  Mecklenburg  Square,  was  once  a 
home  of  Dickens,  as  No.  14  was  of  Sydney  Smith. 
But  the  Foundling  Hospital  itself  cannot  be  passed 
over  without  a  word.  It  is  one  of  the  sights  of 
London.  To  go  there  for  Sunday  service  and  see 
the  legion  of  children  alike  innocent  of  their  past  as 
of  their  future,  mercifully  at  home  here,  though  else- 
where they  brought  only  shame  and  misfortune,  is  to 

>74] 


HERE    AND    THERE 


be  touched  and  pleased  in  a  manner  rare  in  this  city. 
In  London  you  can  either  be  amused  or  have  your 
heart  wrung.  The  Foundling  Hospital  affects  you 
somewhat  more  delicately.  How  wise  was  Captain 
Thomas  Coram  to  establish  this  foundation ! 
Christ's  Hospital,  Charterhouse,  the  Foundling  — 
such  benefactions  can  be  found  only  in  rich  and  an- 
cient cities,  where  wealth  has  long  since  ceased  to 
be  a  novelty,  as  it  is  in  some  American  cities,  where 
the  best  that  many  a  child  of  fortune  seems  able  to 
do  is  to  go  to  Florida  in  a  private  car  and  hire  a 
floor  in  the  hotel. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  British  Museum  lies  Soho 
with  its  French  atmosphere  and  table  d'hote  res- 
taurants. Someone  has  written  a  book  on  the  Bo- 
hemia of  London,  and  Soho  is  an  extensive  prov- 
ince of  that  Bohemia.  But  I  should  not  care  to  write 
a  book  about  it.  This  bringing  of  Bohemianism  to 
the  middle  classes  and  the  casserole  within  reach  of 
the  masses  shall  win  no  renown  from  me.  It  enables 
a  few  Frenchmen  and  Italians  to  grow  rich  by  sup- 
plying people  with  food  they  would  not  eat  at  home. 
Some  of  the  restaurants,  however,  notably  the 
"  Gourmet  "  in  Lisle  Street,  or  the  "  Rendezvous  " 
in  Dean  Street,  are  a  pleasant  diversion  in  seasons  of 
dullness.  They  are,  at  all  events,  a  relief  from  the 
more  substantial  type  of  English  restaurant  (out- 
side the  great  hotels)  where  feeding  is  still  regarded 
as  merely  the  next  step  to  slaughtering.      The  Soho 

[i75] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

table  d'hote  has  brought  cosmopolitanism  within 
reach  of  the  shop  assistant,  and  theatrical  men  and 
women  come  here  to  get  their  fill  of  atmosphere,  so 
essential  to  their  temperaments.  I  remember  some 
years  ago  ordering  in  a  Wardour  Street  Italian  res- 
taurant a  dinner  in  an  incredible  number  of  courses 
for  an  infinitesimal  sum.  But  the  present-day 
French  table  d'hote  does  not  ruin  itself  by  any  such 
excesses.  Sooner  or  later,  however,  everyone  in  Lon- 
don (excepting  some  seven  million  people)  comes 
to  it,  and  is  convinced  that  there  is  a  "  something 
about  these  foreign  places,"  a  something  hard  to  de- 
fine, but  for  which  the  Englishman  hungers  as  much 
as  anybody.  Familiar  faces  people  the  tables,  faces 
he  has  seen  beyond  the  footlights  of  the  Royalty 
theater  or  a  music  hall,  and  that,  together  with  the 
foreign  accent  of  the  waiters,  bodies  forth  a  stirring, 
thrilling  Bohemia.  The  truth  is,  I  find  it  impossible 
to  take  English  Bohemianism  seriously.  There  is 
plenty  of  good  sense  and,  among  the  more  intelli- 
gent classes,  a  growing  if  secret  disregard  for  the 
heavier  sort  of  conventionality.  But  for  the  Bo- 
hemian life  as  it  is  understood  on  the  Continent,  the 
average  Englishman  is  about  as  adaptable  as  the 
average  polar  bear  to  an  equatorial  jungle. 

In  the  early  pages  of  this  book  I  have  already 
said  something  concerning  the  literary  associations 
of  Soho.  But  it  has  historical  and  artistic  associa- 
tions as  well.     The  Duke  of  Monmouth  lived  on  the 

[176] 


HERE    AND    THERE 


south  side  of  Soho  Square  in  1681,  and  another  per- 
sonality, perhaps  as  real  to  us  as  the  Pretender's, 
lived  in  Golden  Square  —  I  mean  Nicholas  Nickleby. 
Angelica  Kaufmann,  the  artist,  also  lived  here. 
This  was  the  artists'  quarter  once,  as  Chelsea  is  now. 
Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  lived  in  Greek  Street,  Hazlitt, 
as  we  have  seen,  died  at  No.  6  Frith  Street,  and  Dean 
Street  was  populous  with  painters.  Benjamin  West 
died  at  14  Newman  Street  and  Fanny  Kemble  was 
born  there.  Berners  Street  was  the  home  of  Opie, 
Fuseli  and  Henry  Bone,  and  No.  54  was  the  scene 
of  Theodore  Hook's  famous  Berners  Street  hoax  — 
a  foolish  hoax  it  seems,  of  sending  tradesmen,  hun- 
dreds of  them,  to  call  at  a  certain  hour  upon  a  poor, 
bewildered  lady.  I  have  never  heard  that  Theodore 
Hook  was  horsewhipped,  but  that  was  surely  what  he 
deserved,  rather  than  the  reputation  of  a  wit.  He 
once  sent  a  man  a  forged  invitation  to  an  evening 
party  of  George  IV  at  Carlton  House,  and  the  man 
was  refused  admission  by  the  servants.  George  IV 
upon  hearing  of  it,  invited  the  man  to  visit  him  the 
next  day,  and  apologized  for  his  servants.  But 
Theodore  Hook  remained  unharmed  —  the  wit ! 

Of  my  score  of  unwritten  chapters,  the  parks  of 
London  should  have  at  least  two.  St.  James's  Park, 
Hyde  Park  and  Kensington  Gardens  form  a  system 
that  any  city  might  envy.  In  size,  of  course,  all 
three  together  are  smaller  than  the  Bois  in  Paris, 
and    I    believe    even    New    York's    Central   Park    is 

[i77] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

larger.  But  they  wind  whimsically  through  a  large 
portion  of  London,  broken  only  by  Piccadilly  at 
Constitution  Hill.  To  Henry  VIII  London  owes 
both  St.  James's  and  Hyde  Parks,  though  James  I 
was  chiefly  concerned  with  the  beautifying  of  the 
first.  Since  each  of  them  has  a  character  of  its  own, 
I  suppose  St.  James's  would  be  notable  for  its  legis- 
lators and  members  of  Parliament  (if  you  could  tell 
them  apart  from  clerks),  Hyde  Park  for  fashion, 
and  Kensington  Gardens  for  perambulators. 

Peter  Pan  lives  in  Kensington  Gardens.  His 
statue,  presented  by  Mr.  (now  Sir  James)  Bar- 
rie,  is  there  for  all  the  children  to  see  by  day;  but 
it  is  at  night,  when  the  gates  are  closed,  that 
Peter  and  Tinker  Bell  make  the  copses  ring  with 
their  multiform  activities.  Hook  is  there  and 
the  Redskins,  and  all  the  Darling  children  astir 
in  their  dreams,  lured  by  the  wily  Peter.  The 
keeper  of  an  English  park  is,  I  believe,  called  a 
ranger,  and  that  is  the  post  and  title  I  covet 
—  the  Ranger  of  Kensington  Gardens !  Peter  him- 
self should  bow  to  my  will,  for  all  his  terrible 
boldness,  and,  unless  I  pleased,  there  should  be  no 
crowding  adventures,  no  houses  built  for  Wendy,  and 
forever  apart  should  be  kept  the  boys  and  their 
dearest  foes,  Hook  and  Smec  and  the  pirates !  I 
sometimes  wonder  whether  Mr.  Barrie  is  the  ranger, 
and  whether  that  is  how  he  has  learned  so  much  of 
the  habits  of  Peter.     He  has  long  lived  in  the  neigh- 

[178] 


HERE    AND    THERE 


borhood  of  the  gardens.  It  would  be  fine  to  expose 
him,  to  show  that  he  is  no  creative  artist  at  all,  but 
a  mere  reporter,  a  transcriber  of  fact.  But  Mr. 
Barrie  is  a  canny,  reticent  man,  so  what  can  you  do? 

I  had  almost  forgotten  Kensington  Palace,  far 
more  beautiful  than  Buckingham,  where  Queen  Vic- 
toria came  to  live  after  her  accession.  But  at  Ken- 
sington Palace  she  was  born  (1819)  and  there  she 
heard  the  news  of  her  succession  (June  20,  1837) 
and  to  this  day  you  may  see  her  rooms  and  her  child- 
ish belongings,  always  the  suffragettes  permitting. 
For  be  it  known  that  no  Wells-Fargo  express  messen- 
ger was  ever  half  so  nervous  about  the  bandits  James 
as  the  average  policeman,  custodian,  or  Home  Secre- 
tary is  at  this  moment  about  the  suffragettes.  The 
present  Queen  of  England  was  also  born  at  Kensing- 
ton Palace.  I  say  nothing  of  Buckingham  Palace,  in 
St.  James's  Park,  because  there  is  nothing  to  say; 
nor  anything  of  the  memorial  to  Queen  Victoria  in 
front  of  it  because  there  is  too  much  to  be  said.  It 
is  not  universally  admired.  But  the  sleepers  in 
Green  Park,  when  they  are  not  gazing  skyward, 
seem  nevertheless  to  be  gazing  toward  the  memorial 
and  the  Palace.  Those  monuments  therefore  cannot 
be  devoid  of  interest.  But  then  the  sleepers  on  the 
grass  are  the  real  leisure  class  of  London,  and  the 
average  sightseer  cannot  vie  with  them. 

As   to   Hyde   Park,   that   is   the   safety   valve   of 
modern  England.     I  know  that  what  appeals  to  most 

[i79] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

people  in  Hyde  Park,  is  the  "  Ring  "  and  "  Rotten 
Row,"  the  carriages  filled  with  pretty  and  other 
women,  guided  by  the  most  priestlike  coachmen  in 
the  world  (so  much  does  their  calling  seem  a  reli- 
gion to  them),  and  the  fat  horses  of  urban  eques- 
trians, who  ride  obviously  only  for  the  sake  of  their 
livers ;  and  the  church  parade  of  a  spring  Sunday  is 
a  sight  well  worth  seeing.  But  the  public  speakers 
in  the  region  of  the  Marble  Arch  are  the  real  attrac- 
tion of  Hyde  Park.  I  have  never  listened  to  any 
of  them  more  than  three  minutes  at  a  time.  I  doubt 
if  anyone  has  listened  as  long.  But  the  mere  fact 
that  those  orators  can  come  to  Cumberland  Gate  and 
attack  anything,  keeps  England  even  now  the  most 
conservative  country  on  earth  (China  having  be- 
come a  republic).  Ibsen  once  gloried  in  the  Russian 
autocracy  because  of  the  love  of  liberty  it  breeds. 
There  all  is  repression,  in  England  all  is  expression. 
That  is  why  liberal  ideas  make  such  comparatively 
small  headway.  Mr.  Hyndman  has  recently  com- 
plained that  in  a  lifetime  devoted  to  Socialism,  he 
has  seen  only  the  most  infinitesimal  advance.  Had 
he  but  succeeded  in  suppressing  free  speech  in  Hyde 
Park  and  elsewhere,  England  might  now  have  been 
his.  As  it  is,  everybody  can  say  anything  and  all 
creeds  and  all  words  tend  to  neutralize  each  other. 
Besides  orators,  Hyde  Park  grows  innumerable  cro- 
cuses that  herald  the  spring  into  London  and,  along 
the  Serpentine,  wise  wading  birds  stalk  at  noon-day. 

[180] 


HERE    AND    THERE 


Tender  are  the  greens  and  delightful  the  shade  in 
summer,  yet  somehow  the  place  is  unspeakably 
melancholy  if  you  are  alone.  Here  too,  are  numer- 
ous children,  but  not  so  many  as  in  Kensington  Gar- 
dens. 

But  the  place  for  wading  birds,  or  other  birds,  or 
beasts,  is  Regent's  Park.  All  menageries  are,  I  sup- 
pose, more  or  less  alike.  Nevertheless  the  menagerie 
in  Regent's  Park  strikes  one  as  different  from  all 
other  menageries.  Its  Outdoor  Monkeys  and  In- 
door Apes,  its  Southern  Aviary,  its  Northern 
Pheasantry  —  the  very  labeling  of  its  precints  is 
different.  Originally  the  King's  beasts  were  kept 
near  the  Tower,  and  in  James  First's  day  there  was 
a  menagerie  of  a  sort  in  St.  James's  Park.  Bird- 
cage Walk  still  bears  the  name  it  had  when  Charles 
II,  so  it  is  said,  hung  his  bird-cages  on  the  trees  there. 
But  now  all  the  wild  life  in  London  is  in  Regent's 
Park.  One  may  spend  days  there  without  weary- 
ing of  observing  the  beasts.  It  is  like  a  rehearsal, 
a  vast  prelude  to  the  appearance  of  man  in  the  order 
of  evolution.  In  the  struggle  for  existence  man  in- 
evitably triumphed,  and  the  beasts  seem  to  say, 
"  Very  well,  you  have  us  in  captivity,  but  it  seems  a 
poor  trick  since  it  was  at  you  and  not  at  us  that 
nature  had  been  aiming  from  the  beginning." 

The  lion  and  the  lamb  do  not  actually  lie  down 

together    in   Regent's    Park,   but   nevertheless    it    is 

almost  in  the  Golden  Age.     Certain  fortunate  peo- 

[181] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 


pie  have  houses  that  actually  stand  in  the  park.  The 
park  is  their  front  yard,  their  garden  —  than  which 
luxury  can  no  farther  go.  It  is  another  of  Lon- 
don's many  anomalies.  Instead  of  being  carefully, 
ceaselessly  warned  to  keep  off  the  grass,  to  leave 
all  hope  behind,  and  so  on,  those  fabulous  people  are 
permitted  to  live  there!  Like  another  Marco  Polo 
I  would  fain  carry  this  news  overseas,  wondering  the 
while  whether  the  rangership  of  this  Park  also  is 
bespoken. 

If  all  those  animals  could  go  to  the  Natural  His- 
tory Museum  in  South  Kensington  they  would  see 
themselves    as    others    see    them,    as    we    see    them. 
There,  in  the  bones  and  vast  remains  of  their  gi- 
gantic ancestors  they  would  recognize  that  the  game 
was  up.     In  the  relics  of  the  mastodon,  the  mam- 
moth,   the    megatherium    and    the    diplodicus,    they 
would  see  that  theirs  at  present  is  a  losing  game,  that 
their  best  days  are  a  million  years  behind,  and  that 
for  them  is  approaching  the  twilight  of  existence,  in- 
deed, the   night.     Man,  the  weakling,  who  used  to 
cower   before   those   bygone   monsters,   now   gathers 
their  teeth  and  aptly  classifies  them  in  cunning  fash- 
ion, for  he  has  risen  to  power.     Perhaps  it  is  as  well 
no  one  takes  the  beasts  to  the  Museum,  or  we  should 
have   what    the   boy    in    the   history    class    called    a 
"  revolt  of  the  pheasants  "  in  dead  earnest. 

The    Museums    in    South    Kensington,    would,    I 

fancy,  eat  considerably  into  my  score  of  unwritten 

[182] 


HERE    AND    THERE 


chapters.  For  how  could  I  describe  in  little  the 
sculptures,  the  pictures,  the  loan-collections,  the 
metal  and  woodwork  exhibits,  or  even  the  leather  and 
furniture?  It  ranges  too  far  afield,  extends  to  too 
many  countries  and  to  almost  all  periods.  The 
seven  great  cartoons  of  Raphael  alone  are  an  ob- 
ject of  attraction  to  people  the  world  over.  In  the 
matter  of  textile  work  and  arts  and  crafts,  the  South 
Kensington  Museum  is  perhaps  unique.  Then  there 
is  the  Ceramics  collection,  the  India  Museum,  the 
Science  Museum  and  I  hardly  know  what  not  besides. 
I  have  a  confused  recollection  of  seeing  scientific 
laboratory  apparatus,  steam  engines  and  state 
barges  dwelling  together  in  intimate  neighborhood. 
But  perhaps  I  am  falling  too  much  into  the  cock- 
ney habit  of  lingering  unduly  on  the  glories  and 
treasures  of  London  itself,  without  any  regard  for 
what  lies  beyond.  There  is  Kew  with  its  gardens 
and  tea-houses,  the  cockney's  delight,  where  the 
brave  and  joyous  out-door  life  of  the  Rivieria  and 
the  South  of  France  is  brought  within  reach  of  the 
masses  —  by  means  of  tea  houses !  To  be  more  ex- 
act, it  is  the  tea-gardens  in  the  rear  of  the  houses, 
brilliant  with  sweet-peas,  honeysuckle  and  hollv- 
hocks.  Be  not  deceived  about  the  tea,  for  it  is 
almost  never  good,  but  you  may  pass  some  very 
agreeable  hours  in  the  gardens  amid  a  crowd  that 
has  changed  but  little  since  the  days  of  Dickens. 
And  one  of  the  pleasantest  walks  I  know  of  is  from 

[183] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

Kew  Gardens  to  Richmond  and  Twickenham  along 
the  river.  The  boats,  the  shining  water  and  the 
shaded  path  will  keep  you  cool  even  in  midsummer. 
I  remember  making  that  walk  in  August  and  then 
enjoying  the  view  from  the  terrace  of  the  Star  and 
Garter,  that  once  fashionable  inn,  unfortunately 
closed  since  then,  because  it  was  losing  money.  But 
I  hear  it  will  reopen,  and  once  again,  let  us  hope, 
the  Harry  Fokers  will  give  little  dinners  there  as  of 
old.  Its  name  alone  should  save  it  from  perdition. 
Beyond  Richmond,  attainable  by  tramway,  lies 
Hampton  Court,  with  its  memories  of  Tudor  sov- 
ereigns, of  Cromwell,  the  Stuarts  and  Queen  Anne, 
with  its  numerous  pictures,  many  of  them  good,  its 
Mantegna  Gallery  with  the  triumphal  procession  of 
Caesar,  the  Garden,  the  Maze  and  Bushey  Park  with 
its  tame  deer  —  a  bit  of  Merrie  England  that  really 
looks  merrie  —  in  summer.  But  I  see  I  am  drawing 
too  far  away  from  my  subject.  After  all  my  concern 
is  London,  not  England  at  large.  And  the  vast  bulk 
of  London  lies  still  untouched. 


[184] 


XII 

THE     LONDON     OF     HOMES 

ALL  through  this  little  book,  while  engaged  in 
recording  sights  and  sounds  and  isolated  pic- 
turesque fragments  of  London,  I  have  been 
conscious  of  repressing  and  holding  back  the  vast 
looming  body  of  London  that  will  not  consent  any 
longer  to  be  excluded  —  the  London  of  homes.  I 
may  say  at  once  that  to  me  this  is  the  realest  and 
most  significant  aspect  of  London.  The  Temple 
might  vanish  to-morrow,  the  Abbey  might  crumble 
into  dust,  but  London,  the  broad,  the  shapeless,  the 
home  of  seven  millions  of  people,  would  hardly  be 
aware  of  their  deletion.  You  cannot  lie  down  at 
night  without  a  pleasant  consciousness  of  the  miles 
upon  miles  of  human  habitations  and  you  cannot 
awake  in  the  morning  without  a  comforting  sense  of 
the  solidarity  that  so  huge  a  city  gives  you.  I  have 
felt  myself  an  alien  in  Paris,  and  who  has  not  ex- 
perienced the  feeling  of  living  in  a  camp  that  comes 
to  you  in  New  York,  where  block  after  block  of 
houses  is  condemned  to  the  use  of  the  northward 
creeping  commerce?  In  London  you  feel  that  the 
primary  business  of  the  city  is  to  multiply  homes. 

[185] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

Everything  else  is  secondar}7.  And  that  fact  alone 
gives  life  a  singular  dignity. 

The  Londoner  now  and  then  complains  that  his 
ancient  landmarks  are  passing.  What  would  he  say 
if  he  were  constantly  driven  northward  and  outward 
by  the  advance  of  the  "skyscraper"?  It  is  small 
wonder  that  many  an  American  comes  to  London 
and  never  leaves  it.  He  finds  that  this  automatic, 
unquestionable  respect  for  the  home  extends  pretty 
much  to  all  his  other  relations  as  a  human  being. 
And  I  fancy  that  a  hundred  ills  in  American  life 
could  be  traced  to  nothing  worse  than  the  unstable 
equilibrium  of  American  cities.  In  London,  so  far 
as  that  is  possible,  the  equilibrium  is  stable. 

Londoners  often  comment  unkindly  about  regions 
of  London  not  their  own.  Literature  is  generally 
made  in  Kensington,  Hampstead,  Chelsea,  or  possi- 
bly St.  John's  Wood.  By  consequence  you  hear  of 
the  dreariness  of  Brixton,  Walham  Green,  Bays- 
water,  Belgravia.  I  deny  that  these  regions  are 
dreary.  They  provide  homes  for  varying  incomes, 
but  they  all  provide  homes,  in  each  of  which,  as  Mr. 
Hueffcr  says,  "  dwells  a  strongly  individualized  hu- 
man being  with  romantic  hopes,  romantic  fears  and 
at  the  end,  an  always  tragic  death."  Let  those  scof- 
fers try  the  unarmed  camp  life  of  an  American  city 
and  the  groves  of  Brixton  will  seem  a  pleasant  dwell- 
ing-place, and  Maida  Vale  will  possess  the  charm  and 
security  of  Gibraltar.     They  are  not  regions  to  lure 

[186] 


THE    LONDON    OF    HOMES 


the  sightseer,  perhaps,  but  they  are  London,  the 
vast  plain  of  the  town  life,  whilst  Bond  Street,  Pic- 
cadilly or  the  Strand  are  mere  hillocks  thrown  up  by 
time  and  the  seismic  adjustments  of  life.  All  the 
"  show  "  part  of  London  shrivels  to  a  minuteness 
against  the  stupendous  background  of  mere  human 
dwelling  places,  and  even  the  commerce  of  the  city, 
mighty  as  it  is,  takes  its  place  as  a  product,  a  by- 
product, of  the  life,  not  as  its  only  begetter. 

Take  St.  John's  Wood.  It  is  a  little  home  city 
in  itself,  and  by  no  means  the  least  important  one 
of  the  many  that  go  to  fuse  into  the  epic  mass  of 
London.  "  There  are  certain  people  we  cannot 
imagine  living  in  St.  John's  Wood,"  says  Mr.  Alan 
Montgomery  Eyre  in  his  excellent  book  on  the 
"  Wood,"  "  and  there  are  certain  people  we  cannot 
imagine  living  anywhere  else."  It  is  no  news  that 
George  Eliot  lived  there,  it  would  be  startling  news 
if  Lord  Rothschild  were  to  move  thither.  A  hun- 
dred years  ago  that  suburb  did  not  exist,  yet  within 
the  span  of  a  human  life  it  has  seen  some  of  Eng- 
land's greatest  spirits  among  its  residents. 

It  was  to  a  sparsely  settled  suburban  region  that 
Thomas  Hood  came  in  1841  and  settled  at  17  Elm 
Tree  Road,  overlooking  Lord's  Cricket  ground,  and 
Dickens  and  Douglas  Jerrold  Avere  doubtless  frequent 
visitors.  Two  years  later  Hood  moved  to  No.  28 
Finchley  Road,  as  a  tablet  indicates  —  now  the 
home  of  the  St.  John's  Wood  Arts  Club.     An  arts 

[187] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

club  in  the  Wood  is  inevitable.  For  there,  as  Mr. 
Beckles  Willson  observes  in  his  introduction  to  Mr. 
Eyre's  book,  "  in  a  thousand  and  one  gardens,  a 
thousand  and  one  miniature  groves  of  almond  and 
lilac  half  hidden  behind  ivied  walls,  a  brave  last 
stand  is  being  made  against  the  Philistines." 

Always  St.  John's  Wood  has  been  the  city  of  ref- 
uge for  those  who  fled  Philistinism  as  well  as  the 
overpowering  and  (to  some  fugitives)  intolerable, 
respectability  of  more  conventional  London.  As 
early  as  1830  Shelley's  friends,  Thomas  Jefferson 
Hogg  and  his  wife  (Jane  Williams)  made  their  home 
in  the  Wood  and  ultimately,  many  years  after  Mrs. 
Hogg's  walks  and  talks  with  Shelley  by  the  Bay  of 
Spezia,  they  dwelt  at  '33  Clifton  Road.  Huxley 
subsequently  came  as  a  neighbor  to  the  Hoggs,  and 
a  friend  of  Huxley's  wrote  him  in  1853,  "  If  your 
Wood  continues  to  be  a  hot-bed  for  Deists  and  doubt- 
ers, you  should  get  its  name  changed  from  St.  John's 
to  St.  Thomas's."  At  that  time  Huxley  was  re- 
garded as  a  terrible  person  who  was  plotting  to  rob 
the  world  of  its  religion.  A  gentleman  still  living, 
records  Mr.  Eyre,  saw  written  upon  the  gate  of 
Huxley's  house  these  lines : 

Pray  for  this  foolish  man  within, 
Who  dares  to  mock  at  God's  decrees, 

Whose  heart  is   full   of  pride  and  sin. 
Go  crave  his  pardon  on  thy  knees. 

[188] 


THE   LONDON    OF   HOMES 


And  one  pious  father  took  his  two  small  boys  to 
this  house ;  "  to  show  you  how  wicked  the  world  is, 
boys,  there  is  a  man  living  in  that  house  who  has 
openly  said  that  he  does  not  believe  in  Noah,  or  in 
the  Ark.  Not  only  that,"  added  the  father  to  the 
marveling  children,  "  but  he  declares  his  great- 
grandfather was  an  ape.  So  that  he  adds  a  delib- 
erate lie  to  unbelief."  For  forty  years  Huxley 
lived  within  this  alluring  Wood;  first  at  14  Waverley 
Place,  where  he  lost  his  firstborn,  a  son ;  later  at  26 
Abbey  Place  (now  23  Abercorn  Place),  where  Dar- 
win often  visited  him.  This  house  he  subsequently 
gave  over  to  Tyndall,  and  built  No.  4  Marlborough 
Place,  to  the  furnishing  of  which  Herbert  Spencer 
contributed  a  clock.  Time,  he  deemed,  was  the 
most  valuable  asset  to  such  a  mind  as  Huxley's ;  and 
perhaps  he  himself  remembered  that  he  had  a  Sys- 
tem to  complete  and  that  the  span  of  life  is  short. 
Well,  Spencer  completed  his  system  and  time,  once 
his  precious  ally,  has  now  almost  outgrown  it  for 
him  —  treacherous  Time !  If  I  had  my  way,  all 
clocks  should  be  deleted  from  the  planet.  Ulti- 
mately both  Huxley  and  Spencer  abandoned  Lon- 
don and  the  Wood  —  Huxley  fleeing  to  Eastbourne 
and  Spencer  to  Brighton.  Gone  are  those  agnos- 
tic philosophers,  and  a  new  era  of  scientists  has 
come  into  being,  scientists  like  Sir  William  Ramsay 
and  Sir  Oliver  Lodge,  already  touched,  particularly 
Sir   Oliver,    by   the   great   wave   of   mysticism   now 

[189] 


LONDON:    AN    INTIMATE    PICTURE 

breaking  over  the  globe.  Huxley  and  Spencer 
would  have  smiled  at  mysticism,  and  psychical  re- 
search must  have  left  them  cold. 

George  Eliot  and  her  husband,  George  Henry 
Lewes,  came  to  the  Wood  in  1863.  This  was  any- 
thing but  Dante's  "  selva  oscura"  for  to  those  two 
Georges,  husband  and  wife,  at  their  home,  21  North 
Bank,  nearly  all  the  genius  of  England  was  wont 
to  come  of  a  Sunday.  "  My  good  friend  Herbert 
Spencer "  was  a  constant  visitor  to  this  Sybil- 
line  lady,  whom  he  very  nearly  married,  and  Brown- 
ing and  Tennyson  were  among  the  number  that 
gathered  round  her  fireplace.  From  that  spot,  by  the 
way,  now  rises  the  great  chimney  of  the  Central  Elec- 
tric Lighting  Company.  I  have  often  wandered  about 
among  the  groves  of  that  Wood,  wondering  whether 
any  greatness  is  there  to-day.  Actors,  painters 
and  some  writers  populate  it  even  unto  this  day, 
but  if  any  greatness  remains  there  it  is  hidden  from 
us.  But  the  great  point  is,  it  is  a  fastness  of  many 
thousand  homes. 

Even  the  Londoner  who  "  knows  his  London,"  it 

has    been    said,   knows   probably   no   more   than   the 

London  that  is  "  his."     The  London  that  is  "  mine  " 

happens  to  be   Chelsea,  and  I  certainly  know  that 

better   than   other   regions.     Chelsea   chances   to   be 

particularly    favored    with   landmarks,   but   if   you 

trace  it  out,  all  London  is  a  palimpsest  of  landmarks. 

For  it  is  a  city  of  a  great  age  and  many  incarna- 

[190] 


THE   LONDON    OF   HOMES 


tions,  and  all  the  bygone  dead  Londons  are  so  very 
numerous  and  must  have  been  very  powerful  to  cre- 
ate the  greatest  town  in  the  world  almost  in  a  swamp. 
Every  day  new  landmarks  are  being  unearthed,  and 
only  yesterday  the  County  Council  placed  a  bronze 
tablet  a  few  doors  away,  round  the  corner  from 
where  this  is  written,  to  the  memory  of  Mrs.  Gas- 
kell,  author  of  "  Cranford,"  who  was  born  at  91 
Cheyne  Walk,  a  hundred  and  three  years  ago.  A 
few  steps  away,  at  the  very  end  of  Cheyne  Walk, 
No.  118,  stands  a  tiny  house  of  blackened  brick  with 
squat  upper  windows,  that  a  successful  bank  clerk 
would  sniff  at.  A  tablet  records  that  Turner  lived 
and  painted  there.  That  is  where  he  hid  himself 
from  his  friends  until  his  death,  in  1851,  and  rose 
early  every  morning  to  gaze  at  the  sunrise  from  his 
not  very  exalted  roof,  which  led  his  neighbors  to 
believe  him  a  retired  sailor.  I  grant  that  this  kind 
of  thing  is  exceptional,  that  all  residential  London 
is  not  Chelsea,  but  much  that  is  interesting  is  scat- 
tered wide.  Besides,  I  am  no  longer  generalizing, 
but  merely  making  a  brief  survey  of  certain  portions 
of  London.  At  Beaufort  Street,  leading  to  Batter- 
sea  Bridge,  that  Whistler  loved  to  paint,  stands 
More's  Garden,  a  building  that  takes  its  name  from 
Sir  Thomas,  the  author  of  "  Utopia,"  who  actually 
had  a  garden  and  a  house  as  well.  In  More's  Gar- 
den even  now  dwells  an  author  not  devoid  of  utopian 
hopes  of  another  sort ;  I  mean  Mr.  Jerome,  the  au- 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 


thor  of  "  The  Passing  of  the  Third  Floor  Back." 
A  step  away  is  No.  74  Cheyne  Walk,  once  a  home 
of  Whistler's,  and  at  the  corner  of  Church  Street 
is  Chelsea  Old  Church,  where  Sir  Thomas  More  lies 
buried.  There  is  a  legend  that  a  man  who  had  once 
lost  himself  across  the  river  in  what  is  now  Batter- 
sea  (I  could  lose  myself  there  now)  found  his  way 
again  by  the  bells  of  this  church,  and  therefore  pre- 
sented it  with  another  bell.  I  have  not  mentioned 
Crosby  Hall,  once  the  property  of  Richard  III  and 
later  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  the  finest  house  in  Lon- 
don when  first  built  (1466),  because  it  was  only  re- 
cently moved  here  from  Bishopsgate,  and  only  the 
doors  and  windows  of  the  original  remain.  At  Dan- 
vers  Street,  where  now  stands  a  bakery,  once  stood 
Danvers  House,  whose  chatelaine,  Lady  Danvers, 
was  often  visited  here  by  Bacon  and  Dr.  Donne,  and 
in  Church  Street  once  resided  Bishop  Atterbury,  Dr. 
Arbuthnot  and  Dean  Swift.  It  is  a  typical  old  Lon- 
don street,  and  to  this  day  you  have  but  to  step  into 
it  to  feel  yourself  in  the  eighteenth  century.  At 
one  end  of  it,  not  the  Cheyne  Walk  end,  lives  Mr. 
William  De  Morgan,  the  author  of  "  Joseph  Vance,'* 
thus  still  giving  it  a  literary  character.  And  the 
other  day  he  was  kind  and  neighborly  enough  to 
show  me  the  spot  in  Cheyne  Row  where  he  first  began, 
in  1872,  to  make  in  very  small  quantities  the  De 
Morgan   Pottery    and    the   De    Morgan   Lustre.     A 

church  now  stands  upon  the  site,  and  Mr.  De  Mor- 

[193] 


THE   LONDON    OF    HOMES 


gan  is  occupied  in  molding  delightful  characters  in 
fiction  in  place  of  pottery.  At  No.  5,  a  few  doors 
from  Mr.  De  Morgan's  old  abode,  is  Carryle's  house, 
now  a  museum  devoted  to  his  memory.  There  is  the 
bed  of  Jane  Welsh  Carlyle,  and  there  the  study  and 
the  table  and  the  books  of  that  inspired  peasant  of 
Ecclefechan,  who  came  as  a  much-needed  lash  to 
the  salf-satisfied  Victorian  Briton.  Here  he  wrote 
the  "  French  Revolution "  and  "  Frederick  the 
Great."  His  more  personal  associations  interest  me 
less  than  those  of  almost  any  other  great  man,  but 
those  associations  are  here.  In  the  public  garden 
in  Cheyne  Walk  is  his  statue  and  a  square  off  the 
King's  Road  bears  his  name.  When  Mr.  De  Mor- 
gan, the  last  of  the  more  genial  Victorians,  first  came 
to  Cheyne  Row,  Carlyle  was  still  the  great  man  of 
Chelsea. 

There  is  scarce  a  house  in  Cheyne  Walk  the  owners 
of  which  I  do  not  envy.  These  are  not  all  mere 
museums  but  dwellings  in  comfortable  active  com- 
mission. They  all  have  the  view  of  the  river  and  of 
Battersea  Park  beyond,  and  within  them  is  the  tran- 
quillity of  centuries  of  peace.  At  16  Cheyne  Walk 
Rossetti  once  lived  and  there  Meredith  almost,  but 
not  quite,  joined  him.  The  story  goes  that  Ros- 
setti's  table  habits  displeased  Meredith,  who  paid  a 
quarter's  rent  down  and  never  came.  At  No.  4 
lived  and  died  George  Eliot,  as  imposing  and  tragic  a 
figure  as  any  in  Chelsea,  or  in  London,  in  her  time. 

[i93] 


LONDON:   AN    INTIMATE   PICTURE 


A  little  farther  along  on  the  Chelsea  Embankment 
stand  a  number  of  little  palaces  of  which  Old  Swan 
House  and  Clock  House  are  not  so  little.  Every 
morning  I  pass  them  and  set  my  watch  by  the  clock 
on  Clock  House,  and  look  for  the  shimmer  of  copper 
in  the  many  windows  of  Old  Swan  House.  A  great 
number  of  shining  copper  vases  and  other  vessels 
are  always  being  cleaned  by  industrious  maids.  In 
my  London  of  homes  Chelsea  occupies  a  large  place, 
perhaps  too  large  a  place.  Set  a  little  back  from 
the  Embankment  in  Royal  Hospital  Road  is  the 
Chelsea  Hospital  with  its  fine  garden,  where  you 
may  see  the  old  veterans  that  survived  Balaclava 
and  Inkerman,  some  of  them,  sunning  themselves  at 
ease  with  dignity.  Walpole  house  once  stood  where 
the  west  wing  of  the  Hospital  stands,  and  Pope  and 
Swift  were  frequent  visitors.  At  the  corner  of  Tite 
Street  and  the  Embankment  lives  Mr.  John  Sargent, 
and  in  Tudor  House  near  by  was  another  of  the 
many  homes  of  Whistler.  But  one  could  go  on  for- 
ever chronicling  Chelsea. 

By  rights  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  begun  with 
Mayfair  and  Park  Lane,  and  point  to  such  "  homes  ,! 
as  Londonderry  House,  Dorchester  House,  or 
Grosvenor  House  as  examples.  For  some  reason, 
however,  I  seem  unable  to  do  that.  When  a  house 
becomes  vast  enough  you  somehow  find  it  difficult  to 
class  it  with  mere  homes.  Such  a  house  as  Dorches- 
ter House,  for  so  long  the  American  Embassy,  seems 

[194] 


Thomas  Carlyle  Statue  on  Chelsea  Embankment 


THE    LONDON    OF    HOMES 


to  be  meant  for  other  functions  aside  from  mere  liv- 
ing. And  to  a  certain  extent  all  Mayfair  seems  to 
share  in  that  distinction.  Belgravia  is  on  the  border 
line.  I  have  often  wondered  who  lives  in  those  large 
uninteresting  houses,  and  to  this  day  I  do  not  know. 
Kensington,  however,  seems  less  mysterious.  Some 
of  the  pleasantest  little  houses  in  the  world  are  to  be 
found  in  the  squares  and  lanes  of  Kensington.  Some 
of  them  I  have  long  measured  with  my  eye  and  marked 
for  inquiry  against  the  time  when  I  desert  Chelsea. 
I  hear  of  no  such  centers  as  Gore  House  in  Lady 
Blessington's  day,  when  everybody  who  was  anybody 
in  art  or  literature  frequented  it.  The  very  house 
itself  has  now  disappeared  in  the  foundations  of 
Albert  Hall.  Nor  is  Holland  House  the  same  magnet 
it  was  in  the  days  when  Macaulay  frequented  it. 
But  upon  Campden  Hill  and  in  the  numerous  squares 
and  streets  on  both  sides  of  the  Kensington  High 
Street  much  art  and  literature  is  made,  and  many 
pleasant  and  unpretentious  people  dwell.  Being  ac- 
quainted with  a  number  of  them  I  can  vouch  for  both 
characteristics,  though  I  make  no  doubt  there  are 
others  as  well. 

Holland  Park,  Ladbroke  Grove  and  Westbourne 
Grove  are  again  mysterious  like  Belgravia.  But 
St.  John's  Wood  is  to  my  certain  knowledge  popu- 
lated by  at  least  some  actors  and  many  painters, 
and  its  claim  to  past  distinction,  as  I  have  endeav- 
ored to  show,  is  indisputable. 

[i95] 


LONDON:   AN   INTIMATE   PICTURE 

Indeed,  letters  and  the  arts  seem  to  be  tending 
west  and  north.  In  Shakespeare's  and  even  in  John- 
son's day,  it  was  east  and  south.  Hampstead  is  a 
favorite,  not  only  with  well-to-do  bankers,  but  with 
well-to-do  writers,  also.  And  literary  associations 
are  numerous  in  both  Hampstead  and  Highgate, 
where  S.  T.  Coleridge  lived  for  so  long  and  snuffled,  as 
has  been  said,  concerning  "  sumject  "  and  "  omject," 
and  other  philosophical  innovations  from  Germany. 
He  lies  buried  in  a  vault  of  the  Grammar  School  ad- 
joining the  Highgate  cemetery,  the  final  resting- 
place  of  George  Eliot,  Herbert  Spencer,  and  Michael 
Faraday.  But  Hampstead  goes  beyond  the  nine- 
teenth century.  Early  in  the  eighteenth  it  was  a 
more  or  less  fashionable  spa,  where  folk  went  to 
take  the  waters,  and  even  in  the  eighteenth  century 
it  was  already  a  favorite  place  with  men  of  letters. 
Sir  Richard  Steele  spent  many  a  pleasant  session  at 
the  inn  called  "  The  Upper  Flask,"  and  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  and  Gainsborough  drove  out  there  in  order 
to  breakfast  on  fresh  milk  and  eggs,  and  the  Kit-Kat 
Club  held  most  of  its  meetings  there.  Dr.  Johnson 
used  to  trudge  out  to  see  his  ailing  wife  there,  and 
Voltaire,  when  he  was  in  England,  1726-29,  visited  a 
Quakers'  Meeting  House  there,  for  he  was  in  sympa- 
thy with  Quakerism  in  his  hatred  of  war.  Leigh 
Hunt  lived  there  in  a  cottage  and  thither  Cowden- 
Clarke  brought  him  the  first  poems  of  the  youthful 

Keats,    and    soon    Keats    himself,    who    "  was    sud- 

[196] 


THE   LONDON    OF   HOMES 


denly  made  a  familiar  of  the  household."  Keats 
took  lodgings  in  Well  Walk  in  1817,  and  in 
1818  he  went  to  live  with  Charles  Brown  at 
Lawn  Bank,  in  John  Street,  until  1820,  and  there 
wrote  "  Endymion "  and  much  of  his  best  work, 
including  the  ode  to  the  nightingale  that  haunted 
the  garden.  Tennyson's  mother  lived  at  Rose 
Mount  in  Flask  Walk  until  her  death  in  1865, 
and  the  poet  devotedly  visited  her  there  during 
her  life.  And  Church  Row,  one  of  the  finest  old 
streets  in  England,  has  a  veritable  shrine  in  the 
Church  of  St.  John,  where  lie  the  remains  of  Con- 
stable, the  painter,  Sir  Walter  Besant  and  George 
du  Maurier,  and  those  of  many  other  notable  folk. 
Among  the  living  lions  of  Church  Row,  in  a  house 
with  a  fine  eighteenth  century  garden,  is  Mr.  H.  G. 
Wells,  who  sits  there  criticising  life  in  a  new  kind  of 
novel,  a  kind  that  instead  of  soothing  the  weary 
Titan  after  his  day's  labor,  fills  his  mind  with  a  mul- 
titude of  ideas  —  a  fact  that  many  honest  readers 
resent.  In  that  house  I  had  the  good  fortune  (if 
I  may  brag)  of  hearing  some  of  the  wittiest  bilk 
in  England.  But  —  if  I  am  not  careful  I  shall  im- 
agine myself  at  the  beginning  instead  of  ai  the  end 
of  this  book. 


The  End. 


[i97] 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Abel,  Dr.  Thomas,  125 
Adams,  John  Quincy,  117 
Addison,   Joseph,   27,   47,    74, 

90,  111,  146 
Adelphi  Terrace,  21,  22 
Admiralty  Arch,  128 
^Eneas,  167 
Agincourt,  143 
Ainsworth,  Harrison,  121 
Albany,  The,  50 
Aldermanbury,  104 
Aldgate,  110,  126 
Aldwych,  30,  31 
Alfred,  King,  122 
Alleyn,  Edward,  113,  114,  120 
Alsatia,   19,  75 
Amadis  de  Gaul,  119 
Amen  Corner,  82,  83 
Amen  Court,  83 
American   Embassy,  194 
American  stock  exchange,  110 
Andre,  Major,   138 
Andrews,      Lancelot — Bishop, 

114,  117 
Angell,   Norman,   132 
Anne,  Queen,  79,  144,  145,  184 
Anti-Socialist  Society,  5 
Apsley  House,  56,  57,  160 
Arbuthnot,  Dr.,  192 
Archbishops  of  York,  130 
Argyll,  Duke  of,  139 
Armories,  The,  124 
Arnold,  Matthew,  138 
Arnold,  Dr.  Thomas,  138 
Arundel,  Philip  Howard,  125 

[ 


Ascham,  Roger — Tomb  of,  84 
Atterbury,  Bishop,  192 
Authorized  Version,  114 
Aveline  of  Lancaster,  141 

Bacon,   Lord,    16,   18,   69,   91, 

164,   192;  and  Shakespeare, 

18 
Bacon,  Sir  Nicholas,  164 
Bacon,  Robert,  115 
Baldwin,  King  of  Jerusalem, 

64 
Balfour,  Arthur,  149,  150 
Bank  of  England,  70,  78,  96, 

109 
Banqueting  Hall,  129 
Barker,   Granville,  21 
Barrier,  Sir  James,  178,  179 
Bartholomew   Fair,  88 
Bath  House,  55 
Bathurst,  Lord,  56 
Battersea,  192 
Battle,  Thomas  de,  75 
Bayswater,  57,  186 
Beaconsfield,   134,   137 
Beauchamp  Tower,   125 
Beauclerk,  Lady  Diana,  72 
Beauclerk,  Topham,  72 
Beaufort,  Margaret,  144,   145 
Beaumont,  100,  113,  142 
Bedlam,  116 
Beerbohm,  Max,  12 
Belgravia,  186,  195 
Bell  Yard,  78 
Bellini,  Gentile,  156 
201] 


INDEX 


Bellini,  Giovanni,   156 
Bentham,  148 

Berlin,    compared    with    Lon- 
don, 7 
Besant,  Sir  Walter,  148,  197 
Big  Ben,  134 
Billee,  Little,  167 
Billingsgate,  112,  117,  118 
Bishop  of  London,  78 
Bishopsgate,  192 
Black  Prince,  90,  99,  122,  142 
Blackstone   (lawyer),  63,  90 
Blake,  166 

Blenheim,  drums  of,  124 
Blessington,  Lady,  8,  195 
Bloody  Tower,  121 
Bloomsbury,  173 
Blucher,  170 

Board  of  Education,  113 
Bohemia  of  London,  175 
Bohun,    Eleanor    de,    142 
Boleyn,    Anne    (Queen),    100, 

121,  125,  130 
Bolt  Court,  73 
Bone,  Henry,  177 
Bonheur,  Rosa,  162 
Boswell,  71 
Botticelli,  153 
Boucher,  170 
Bourchier,  Elizabeth,   106 
Bow  Street  Police  Court,  28 
Brick  Court,  62 
Bridges 

Battersea,  191 

Black  friars,  77 

London,  103,   107,  111,   116, 
117 

Tower,  116 

Westminster,  148 
Brighton,  189 
Brixton,  186 
Bronte,  Charlotte,  82 
Brooks,  Phillips,  137 
Brown,  Charles,  197 


[202] 


Brown,  Ford  Madox,  166 
Browning,  140,  152,  190 
Buccleuch,  Duke   of,   132 
Buckingham,     Duke     of,     19, 

121,  145 
Buckingham's  chapel  146 
Buckle   (historian),  72 
Bulwer-Lytton,  55 
Bunhill  Fields,  93,  105 
Bunyan,  John,  93,  113,  164 
Burke,  Edmund,  4,  45,  55,  61, 

64,  150 
Burleigh,  Lady,  143 
Burlington  Arcade,  53 
Burlington  House,  50 
Burne-Jones,  166,   174 
Burns,  140 
Burns,  Mr.  John,  9 
Butler,  Samuel,  tomb  of,  26 
Button's  Coffee-house,  27 
Byron,  43,  56 


Calais,  146 
Calvin,  173 

Cambridge,  Duke  of,  134 
Campden  Hill,  4,  195 
Campbell,  Thomas,  136 
Canaletto,   70,   157,   170 
Canning,  George,  66,  137 
Canterbury  Pilgrims,  116 
Carlton  House,  45,  177 
Carlton   House  Terrace,  46 
Carlyle,  home  of,  7,  193 
Carlyle,  Jane  Welsh,  193 
Caroline,  Queen,  146 
Carthusian   Brothers,  89 
Carthusian  monastery,  90 
Castlereagh,  Lord,  44,  137 
Caxton,  75,  137,  147,  148 
Cemeteries 

Highgate,  196 

Nonconformist,   93 
Centers  of  London,  109 


INDEX 


Central     Electrical     Lighting 

Co.,  190 
Central  Meat  Market,  88 
Cervantes,  119 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer, 

133 
Chantry  Chapel,  147 
Chapman,  101 

Chapter  House,  135,  145,  147 
Charing    Cross,    99,    127,    128, 

146 
Charing  Cross,  Station,  16 
Charles  I.,  130,  143,  149,  173 
Charles    I.'s    Queen,    portrait 

of,  163 
Charles  II.,  131,  133,  145,  181 
Chatterton,  82,  94,  140 
Chaucer,  24,  99,  101,  112,  113, 

139    140 
Cheapside,  96,  97,  98,  99,  100, 

102,  109 
Chelsea,  57,  177,  186,  190,  191, 

194,  195 
Chelsea  Embankment,  8,   193, 

194 
Chepe,  see   Cheapside 
Cheshire  Cheese,  73 
Childs,  George  W.,  137 
Choate,  114 
Christie's,  45 

Christ's   Hospital,   83,   175 
Churches 

All  Hallows,  98,  117,  118 

Catholic  Cathedral,  148 

Chelsea  Old,  192 

Christ,  83,  174 

Peterborough  Cathedral,  144 

St.  Andrew's,  94 

St.    Bartholomew-the-Great, 
86 

St.      Bartholomew-the-Less, 
85 

St.  Bride's,  75 


Churches — continued 

St.   Clement  Danes,  31,   72 

St.  Dunstan's-in-the-West, 
71 

St.  Edmund's,  111,  142 

St.  George,  116 

St.  Giles,  Cripplegate,  104, 
106,  107,  140 

St.  James's,  49 

St.  John,  197 

St.  John's  Chapel,  123,  124 

St.  Helen's,  107 

St.  Lawrence  Jewry,  104 

St.  Magnus  Martyr,  117 

St.  Margaret's,  134,  135,  136 

St.  Martin's-in-the-Fields, 
16 

St.  Mary,  Aldermanbury, 
104 

St.  Mary's,  Whitechapel,  126 

St.  Mary  le  Strand,  31 

St.  Nicholas,  142 

St.  Paul's  (Covent  Gar- 
den), 26,  59,  77,  78,  79, 
81,  82,  88,  95,  96,  135 

St.  Peter  ad  Vincula,  125 

St.  Peter's,  110 

St.  Peter's   in   Rome,   79 

St.  Saviour's,  107,  112,  114, 
120 

St.  Sepulchre's,  83,  84,  94 

St.  Vedast's,  97 

Savoy  Chapel,  24 

Temple,  63,  87,  94 
City  of  London,  58 
City  of  Westminster,  58 
Civil  Service  Examinations,  51 
Clarendon,  Lord,  54,  63 
Clarendon  House,  54 
Claude,  162 
Clement's  Inn,  5,  33 
Clerkenwell,  94 
Clifford's  Inn,  70 


[203] 


INDEX 


Clock  House  Palace,  194 

Close,  the,  82 

Clubs 

Army  and  Navy,  39 

Athenaeum,  39 

Automobile  (Royal),  39 

Badminton,  55 

Brooks's,  42 

Carlton,  38 

Cavalry,  56 

Conservative,  43 

Devonshire,  42 

Garrick,  26 

Guards',  38 

Isthmian,  55 

Junior  Carlton,  38 

Junior  Naval  and  Military, 
55 

Kit-Kat,  74,  196 

Lyceum,  56 

Marlborough,  38 

Mermaid,  101 

National  Liberal,  5 

Naval  and  Military,  55 

Reform,  38 

St.  James,  55 

St.  John's  Wood  Arts,  187 

Samuel  Weller  Social,  115 

Savage,  23 

Savile,  56 

Travellers',  38 

United  Service,  39 

White's,  42 
Clubs,  decadence  of,  37 
Cobden,  Richard,  138 
"Cock,"  The   (tavern),  4 
Coeur      de      Lion's      Regent, 

123 
Coke  (lawyer),  63 
Coleridge,  67,  140,  196 
Colet,  81 
Colleges 

London  University,  173 


Colleges — continued 

Magdalene,  136 

St.  John's,  Cambridge 
Colvin,  Sir  Sidney,  56 
Commons,  House  of,  149,  150 
Continental  Congress,  68 
Congreve,  138 
Constable,  161,  162,  197 
Constitution  Hill,  178 
Coram,  Captain  Thomas,  174, 

175 
Cornhill,  107 
Corot,  162 
Correggio,  152,  154 
Cosimo,  Piero  di,  153 
Cotton,  Sir  John,  173 
Council   Chamber,   103 
Covent  Garden,  24 
Coverdale,  Miles,  117 
Cowden-Clarke,  196 
Cowley,  140 
Cowper,  138,  148 
Crashaw,  90 
Crevelli,  156 
Criminal   Courts,   83 
Crome,  161,  162 
Cromwell,  Oliver,  66,  106,  121, 

133,  136,  158,  173,  184 
Cromwell  vault,  145 
Crouchback,  Edmund,  111 
Crown  Jewels,  120,  122 
Cumberland  Gate,  180 
Cuyp,  157,  168,  169 

Danvers  House,  192 
Dan  vers,  Lady,  192 
Darwin,  Charles,  138,  189 
da  Vinci,  Leonardo,  154 
Dean's  Yard,  148 
Defoe,  Daniel,  93,  106,  110 
De  Hooch,  Peter,  157,  159 
Delane,  Walter,  75 
De  Morgan  Lustre,  192 


[204] 


INDEX 


De  Morgan  Pottery,  192 

De  Morgan,  William,  192,  193 

Denham,  140 

Derby,  Countess  of,  144,  145 

Derby,  Lord,  8,  134 

Devereux,  Robert,  121,  125 

Devonshire,  Duke  of,  54 

Devonshire  House,  54,  55 

Dickens,  29,  55,  76,  140,  174, 
183,  187 

Dido,  167 

"Divine  Fire,"  author  of,  11 

Doctors  Commons,  78 

Doge's  Palace,  155 

Domesday  Book,  68 

Donne,  Dr.,  192 

Dorchester   House,  160,   194 

Downing,  George  (ambas- 
sador), 133 

Drvden,  4,  26,  90,  139,  147,  148 

Dudley,  125 

Dulwich  College,  113,  111,  120 

Du  Maurier,  167,  197 

Eastbourne,  189 

Eastlake,  166 

Edgar,  King,  135 

Edward  I.,  146 

Edward  II.,  65 

Edward  HI.,  90,  99,  116 

Edward  VI.,  146 

Edward  the  Confessor,  135, 
146,  148 

Edward,  Duke  of  Bucking- 
ham, 121 

Eldon,  Lord,  63,  174 

Eleanor,  Queen,  99,  146 

Eliot,  George,  187,  190,  193, 
196 

Elizabeth,  Queen,  34,  71,  100, 
121,  136,  144,  146 

Elizabeth,  Queen  of  Bohemia, 
144 


[205] 


Elizabeth,  Queen  of  York,  145 
Elizabeth's  "Salt,"  Queen,  122 
Embankment,  Thames,  63 
Embankment,  Victoria,  15 
Erasmus,  81 
Essex,  149 
Essex  Court,  69 
Essex,  Earl   of,   121,   125 
Essex  House,  34 
Evelyn,  21,  54 

Eyre,  Alan  Montgomery,  187, 
188 

Fabian  Society,  5,  33 

Faraday,  Michael,  196 

Fawkes'  prison,  Guy,  125 

Fielding,  Henry,  28,  47,  173 

Fire  of  1666,  Great,  85,  111, 
118 

Fisher,  Bishop,  118 

Fishmongers,  Guild  of,  112 

Fleet  prison,  76 

Fletcher,  113,  114,  148 

Forum,  the,  109 

Fountain  Court,  104 

Fox,  Charles  James,  42,  53,  55, 
138 

Foxe   (martyrologist),   106 

Fragonards,  170 

Franklin,  Benjamin,  17,  86, 
88 

Franklin,  Sir  John,  131 

Freemason's  Court,  110 

Frobisher,  Sir  Martin  (navi- 
gator),  106 

Fuseli,  177 

Gainsborough,    40,    161,    162, 

169,  196 
Galleries 

Diplomat      (Royal      Acad- 
emy), 51 

Dulwich,  168 


INDEX 


Galleries — continued 
Hertford  House,  169 
Leicester,  12 
Mantegna,  184 
National,  16,   151,  152,  160, 

161,  164,  170 
National  Portrait,  163,  164 
Tate,  162,  164 

Gardens 

Kensington,  177,  178,  181 
Kevv,  183,  184 

Garraway's  Coffee  House,  110 

Garrick,  David,  22,  140 

Gaskell,  Mrs.,  191 

George  II.,  70,  133,  146 

George  III.,  68 

George  IV.,  169,  177 

Georgiana,  Duchess  of  Dev- 
onshire, 54 

Ghirlandajo,  154 

Gibbon,  148 

Gifford,  Bishop  of  Win- 
chester, 113 

Giorgiones,  155 

Gilpin,  John,  96 

Gissing,  George,  172 

Gladstone,  8,  66,  137 

Gloucester,  122 

Gloucester,  Duchess  of,  142 

Goethe,  173 

"Golden   Legend,"  75 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  58,  59,  60, 
62,  64,  71,  72,  73,  78,  81,  82, 
113,  140 

Gordon,  monument  of,  15,  80 

Gore  House,  195 

Goring  House,  53 

Government  buildings,  134 

Gower,  112,  113 

Gozzoli,  Benozzo,  154 

Gray's  Inn,  69 

Greenwich,  Duke  of,  139 

Greuze,  170 

I 


Grey,  Lady  Jane,  121,  125 
Grosvenor  House,  160,  194 
Grote,  George,  90 
Guardi,  170 
Guildhall,  101,  102,  104 
Gwynne,  Nell,  39 

Hakluyt,  148 
Halifax,  Lord,  138 
Hall,  Thomas  de,  75 
Hals,  Frans,  157,  169 
Halls, 

Albert,  195 

Crosby,  192 

Fishmongers,  112 

Goldsmith's,  97 

Mercer's,  101 

Sadlers',  97,  101 
Hamilton,  Lady,  home  of,  49 
Hampden,  173 
Hampstead,  186,  196 
Hampton  Court,  156,  1S4 
Handel    (musician),  140 
Hanover,  House  of,  146 
"Harlow,  Clarissa,"  76 
Harvard  Chapel,  114 
Harvard  College,  120 
Harvard,  John,  114,  120 
Harvard,  Robert,  114 
Hastings,  Lord,  125 
Hastings,  Warren,  138,  148 
Havelock,  Sir  Henry,  90 
Havelock,  monument  of,  15 
Havmarket,  46 
Hazlitt,  Wm.,  4,  94,  163,  177 
Heine,  7,  96 
Henrietta,  Queen,  163 
Henry  III.,  146 
Henry  IV.,  147 
Henry  V.,  103,  146 
Henry  VI.,  122 
Henry    VII.,    136,    139,    143, 

144,  145,  146 
06] 


INDEX 


Henry    VIII.,    90,    100,    124, 

129,  130,  131,  136,  143,  164, 

178;  wife  of,  125 
Heraelius,  63 
Herbert,  138 

Herschel  (astronomer),  138 
Herrick,  97 
Highgate,  196 
Hobbema,   157,  169 
Hogarth,  70,  88,  99,  161,  162 
Hogg,  Thomas  Jefferson,  188 
Holbein,  161,  162 
Holborn,  69 
Holborn  Viaduct,  94 
Holland   House,  195 
Holland,  Lord,  138 
Holland  Park,  195 
Holly  Lodge,  5 
Holy  Land,  65 
Home  Rule  Bill,  149 
Hood,  Thomas,  187 
Hook,  Theodore,  39,  177 
Horse  Guards,  128,  129 
Horsham,  83 
Hospitals 

Bethlehem   Royal,  116 

Chelsea,  194 

Foundling,  174,  175 

Guv's,  115 

St.'  Bartholomew's,  85 
Hotels 

Berkeley,  54 

Carlton,  47,  82 

Cecil,  16 

Chapter  Coffee  House,  82 

George,  116 

Morley's,  16 

Park  Lane,  56 

Piccadilly,  49 

Ritz,  53,  54,  82 

Savoy,  16 

Strand  Palace,  16 

Waldorf,  31 

[ 


Hotels — continued 

Westminster  Palace,  148 
Houndsditch,  126 
Howard,     Queen     Katherine, 

121,  125 
Howe,  Viscount,  138 
Hunt,  Holman,  80 
Hunt,  Leigh,  196 
Hunter,  138 
Huxley,  188,  189 
Hyde  Park   Corner,  57,   126 
Hyndman,  180 

Imperial   Defense   Committee, 

132 
Incorporated  Law  Society,  68 
India  House,  111 
Inner  Temple,  62,  63 
Inner  Temple  Hall,  65 
Inns 

Chaucer's  Tabard,  166 

Star  and  Garter,  184 

Tabard,  116 

White  Hart,  115,  116 
Inns  of  Court 

Clement's,  5,  33 

Clifford's,  70 

Furnival's,  94 

Gray's,  69,  77,  94 

Lincoln's,  61,  66,  68,  69 

Serjeant's,  75 

Staple,  69 
Iron  Duke,  80 
Irving,  Sir  Henry,  29,  140 
Irving,  Washington,  88,  143 
Islington,  93 
Italian  bankers,  111 

Jacobs,  W.  W.,  126 

James   I.,   113,   129,   130,   131, 

135,  143,  144,  145,  181 
James,  King,  75 
207] 


INDEX 


Jane,    Viscountess    Rochford, 

125 
Jerome,  191 
Jerrold,  Douglas,  187 
Jerusalem  Chamber,  147 
Jessel,    Master    of   the    Rolls, 

67 
Jewish  bankers,  111 
John,    Duke    of    Argyll    and 

Greenwich,  139 
John,  King,  123 
John  of  Gaunt,  90 
John's        Anointing        Spoon, 

King,  122 
Johnson,     Louisa     Catherine, 

117 
Johnson,   Dr.   Samuel,  32,  58, 

71,   72,   73,   81,   82,   85,    105, 

113,  133,  140,  162,  195,  196 
Jones,  Inigo,  69 
Jonson,  Ben,  68,  100,  148,  164 
Justice,  Palace  of,  83 

Kant,  173 

Katherine  of  Aragon,  125 
Kaufmann,  Angelica,  177 
Keats,  John,  101,  115,  140,  196 
Keble,  138 
Kelvin,  Lord,  138 
Kensal  Green,  140 
Kensington,  11,  57,  186,  195 
Kensington,  South,  182 
Kensington  Gore,  57 
Keppel,  Admiral,  162 
Kingsley,  Charles,  138 
Kingston,  Duke  of,  74 
Kipling's  England,  127 
Kneller,     Sir     Godfrey,     138, 

163 
Knights   Templars,  63,  75 

Lady  Chapel,  114 
Lamb,  Charles,  26,  60,  63,  66, 
83,  94,  111,  163 


[208] 


Lambeth,  116 
Landseer,  166 
Lansdowne,  Lord,  138 
Laud,  Archbishop,   118 
Law,  Mr.  Bonar,  11 
Law  Courts,  3,  59,  74 
Lawn  Bank,  197 
Lawrence,  80,  161 
Lawrence,  Lord,  139 
Lawrence,  Sir  Thomas,  177 
Leech,  John   (artist),  89 
Leicester  Galleries,   12 
Leighton,  Lord,  monument  of, 

79 
Lely,  Sir  Peter,  26,  161 
Les  Stokkes   Market,   108 
Lewes,  George  Henry,  190 
♦'Light  of  the  World,'  The,"  80 
Lincoln's  Inn,  61,  66,  68,  69 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  70,  109 
Lion  Tower,  120 
Lion's  Gate,  120 
Lippi,  Filippino,  153 
Lippi,  Lippo,  153 
Livingstone,  David,  139 
Lloyd,  110 

Local  Government  Board,  133 
Locke,  148 

Lodge,  Sir  Oliver,  189 
London   House,  44 
Londonderry  House,  194 
Longchamp,  123 
Longshanks,  Edward,  147 
Lord  Mayor,  59,  99,  102,  107, 

129 
Lord  Mayor's  Show,  100 
Lord's   Cricket   grounds,   187 
Lords,  House  of,  149 
Lords   of   the   Privy   Council, 

103 
Lo  Spagnoletto,  161 
Loti,  Pierre,  81 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  147 


INDEX 


Lucas,  E.  V.,  164 

Ludgate  Circus,  76 

Luther,  173 

Lvell  (geologist),  138 

Lvttleton,  63 

Lytton,  Bulwer,  142,   169 

Macaulay,    Lord,    5,    69,    140, 

174 
Macaulay,  Zachary,  138,  195 
MacDonald,  Ramsey,  150 
Magdalene       College,       Cam- 
bridge, 136 
Maine,  Sir  Henry,  138 
Manny,  Walter  de,  90 
Mansion  House,  107,  108,  109 
Mantegna,  158 
Marble  Arch,  180 
Mark       Lane       Underground 

Station,  118 
Marlborough,  Duke         of 

(First),  40,  158 
Marlborough  House,  41 
Marshalsea  Prison,  116 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  144 
May,     Sir     Thomas     Erskine, 

137 
Memorial  Hall,  76 
Mendelssohn,  110 
Metsu,  Gabriel,  169 
Middle    Temple,    hall    of,    61, 

63 
Middle  Temple  Lane,  60 
.Michael  Angelo,  143,  173 
Mierevelt,  169 
Mildmay,  Sir  Walter,  87 
Mile  End  Road,  126 
Mill,  James,  111 
Mill,  John  Stuart,  111 
Millais,  80,  166,  174 
Milton,  75,  88,  93,  96,  98,  104, 

105,  106,  107,  136,  137,  140, 

147 


Mitre  Court,  71 

Mitre  Tavern,  71 

Monk,  General,  136,  145 

Monmouth,  Duke  of,  121,  176 

Montague  House,  132 

Montagu,   Lady   Mary   Wort- 
ley,  53,  74 

Monument,  The,  111 

Moore,  Sir  John,  131 

More's  Garden,  8,  191 

More,    Sir    Thomas,    66,    118, 
121,  149,  192 

Moroni,  156 

Morris,  William,  174 

Mulready,  166 

Murillo,  161,  168 

Museums 

British,   171,  173,  175 
Natural  History,  182,  183 
United  Service,  131 


Napier,  monument  of,  15,  80 

Naples,    Aquarium,    164 

Napoleon,  56,  131 

Nell  Gwynne,  16 

Nelson's  Log  of  the  Victory, 

68 
Nelson,    Lord,   monument    of, 

14,  15,  80 
Newbury's  house,  81 
Newcastle,  Duke  of,  70,  137 
Newcastle   House,  70 
Newcome,  Clive,   89 
Newcome,  "Cod  Colonel,"  89 
New  Record  Office,  66 
Newton,  Sir  Isaac,  45,  138 
Nickleby,   Nicholas,   177 
Norfolk,  Duke  of,  44,  54,  90, 

92 
Norman  Era,  99 
North,  Sir  Edward,  90 
Northcliffe,  Lord,  75 


[209] 


INDEX 


Northumberland,  Duke  of,  118 
Northumberland,  Earl  of,  90 

Offa,  Mercian  King,  147 

Old  Bailey,  83 

Old  Swan  House  Palace,   193 

Opera,  Covent  Garden,  25 

Opie,  177 

Orcagna,  154 

Outer  Temple,  63 

Outram,  Sir  James,  139 

Ovid,  58 

Oxford,  60,  62 

Palaces 

Buckingham,  10,  128,  179 

Kensington,  179 

Marlborough  House,  41 

St.  James's,  10,  36,  41,  129 

Whitehall,     127,     128,     129, 
130,  131 
Pall  Mall,  10,  36 
"Pall  Mall  Gazette,"  137 
Palmerston,     Lord,     55,     134, 

137 
"Pamela,"    76 
Pan,   Peter,   178 
Paris,    compared    with    Lon- 
don,   6 
Park  Lane,  54,  57 
Parks 

Battersea,   8,   193 

Green,  55,  179 

Hyde,  177,  178,  179,  180 

Regents',   181 

St.   James's,   128,   177,    178, 
179,  181 
Parliament,  126,  134,  135,  147, 

148,  149,  178 
Paternosters,  82,  135 
Paterson,  William,  109 
Peel,    132,   134 
Peers,  149 


Pembroke,  Earl  of,  63,  64,  65, 
141,  142 

Pendennis,  Major,  169 

Penn,  William,  117 

Pensioner's  Court,  92 

Pepys,  20,  99,  103,  136 

Pepysian  Library,  136 

Percy  family,  vault  of,  143 

Peter  the  Cruel,  122 

Peter  the  Great,  118 

Philippa,    Duchess    of    York, 
142 

Philippa,  Queen,  146 

Phillips,  William,  114,  163 

Piccadilly,  47,  178,  187 

Piccadilly  Circus,  48 

Pickwick,  Mr.,  115 

"Pickwick  Papers,"  94 

Pillars  of  Hercules,  57 

Pimlico,  165 

Pinch,  Ruth  (and  John  West- 
lock),  62 

Piombo,    Sebastiano    del,    155, 
156 

Pitt,  William,  7,  66,  137,  138, 
166 

Pitti  Palace,  152 

Plantagenets,  125,  146 

Pocahontas,  84 

Poets'  Corner,  138,  139,  140 

Pole,  Geoffrey,  125 

Police    magistrates    of    Lon- 
don, 29 

Ponsonby  of  Waterloo,  monu- 
ment of,  80 

Pope,  105,  110,  194 

Poussin,  Nicolas,  162 

Prince  of  Wales,  59 

Privy  Council  Buildings,  132 

Prudential  Offices,  94 

Punch,  75 

Pye  Corner,  85 

Pym,  173 
[210] 


INDEX 


Quakers'  Meeting  House,  196 
Quiney,  Thomas,  78 

Rahere,  85,  87 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  101,  120, 

1S6,  137,  166 
Raleigh's  prison,  125 
Rambler,  The,  birth  of,  41 
Rambler  Essays,  72 
Ramsav,  162,  189 
Raphael,    151,   152,    154,    155, 

158,  183 
"Rasselas,"  72 

Record  Office  Museum,  67,  68 
Reformation,  The,  82 
Regent's  Park,  120 
Religious  Tract  Society,  81 
Rembrandt,  157,  159,  160,  168, 

169 
Reni,  Guido,  154 
Restaurants,  "Gourmet,"  175; 

Italian,   176;   "Rendezvous," 

175;  Table  d'Hote,  175 
Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  80,  161, 

162,  169,  196 
Rhodes,  Cecil,  164 
Richard,  123 

Richard  II.,  141,  142,  146 
Richard  III.,  121,  192 
Richardson,  173 
Richmond,  184 
Richmond,   Countess   of,    144, 

145 
Roberts,  Lord,  15 
Robinson,  Perdita,  169 
Rochford,  Viscountess,  125 
Rodney,  monument  of,  80 
Rogers,  Samuel,  home  of,  43 
Rolls  Chapel,  67 
Rolls,  Master  of  the,  67 
Rolls  Yard,  67 
Rose  Mount,  197 
Rossetti,  165,  166,  193 

[21 


Rossetti,  Christian,  174 

Rothschild,  Lord,  56,  187 

Rothschild,  N.  M.  de,  108 

Rothschilds,  business  prem- 
ises, 108 

Roubiliac,  139 

Round  Church,  the,  65 

Roundheads,  136 

Royal  Academy,  50 

Royal  College  of  Surgeons, 
70 

Royal  Exchange,  109,  110 

Royal  Mint,  126 

Royal  Residence,  124 

Royal  United  Service  Mu- 
seum, 131 

Rubens,  157,  158 

Rupert,  Prince,  144 

Ruskin,  John,  156,  157,  174 

Ruysdael,  157 

St.  Dunstan's  Hill,  117 

St.  Dunstan's-in-the-East,  117 

St.  Edward,   146 

St.  Edward's  Staff,  122 

St.  John,  Knights  of,  65,  93 

St.  John's  Gate,  93 

St.  John's  Wood,  186,  187, 
188,  189,  190,  195 

Sacheverell,  Dr.,  113 

Salisbury,  Countess  '  Mar- 
garet, 125 

"Sam's"  (Coffee-house)  Club, 
34 

Saracens,  65 

Sargent,  John,  194 

Sarto,  Andrea  del,  154 

Savile  Row,  52 

Savoy  Chapel,  24 

Savoy  Palace,  24 

Schools, 

Charterhouse,  89,  90,  91,  92, 
118,  175 

I] 


INDEX 


Schools — continued 

St.  Paul's,  81 

Westminster,  148 
Scotch  Lords,  118 
Scotland  Yard,  new,  133 
Scott,  Captain,  131 
Scottish  Lord  Advocate,  132 
Sebert,  Saxon  King,  135,  141, 

142 
Selden,  60,  64 
Severn,  163 
Shaftesbury,  Lord,  66 
Shakespeare,  Edmund,  114 
Shakespeare,  William,  60,  62, 

68,  78,  81,  98,  100,  113,  115, 

122,  130,  140,  147,  156,  163, 

164,  195 
Shaw,  G.  B.,  12,  22,  23 
Shelley,  140,  188 
Shepherd's  Market,  10 
Sheridan,  52,  55,  60,  140 
Shovel,  Sir  Cloudesley,  138 
Shrewsbury,  Earl  of,  142 
Siddons,  Mrs.,  162,  174 
Signorelli,  Luca,  155 
Smith,  Captain  John,  84 
Smith,  Sydney,  174 
Smith  &  Elder,  publishers,  82 
Smithfield,  84,  86,  88,  93 
Smooth  Field,  88 
Soane,  Sir  John,  109 
Soane's  Museum,  Sir  John,  70 
Soho,  4,  175,  176 
Somerset  House,  29,  158 
Southey,  69,  140,  148 
Southwark,  103,  115,  140 
Southwark      Cathedral,      112, 

115,  117 
"Spectator,  The,"  74 
Spencer,    Herbert,    140,    189, 

190,  196 
Squares 

Bedford,  173 


Squares — continued 

Bloomsbury,  173 

Brunswick,  173,  174 

Charterhouse,  89,  92,  93,  94 

Edwardes,  11 

Golden,  177 

Gough,  73 

Leicester,  49 

Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  70 

Manchester,  168 

Mecklenburg,  173,  174 

New,  69 

Onslow,  8 

Printing   House,   77 

Red  Lion,  173,  174 

Russell,  173 

St.  James's,  7,  44,  54 

Soho,  177 

Torrington,  174 

Trafalgar,   14,   128 

Woburn,  173,  174 
Stafford  House,  43,  160 
Stanley,  Dean,  145 
Staple  Inn,  69 
"State  Apartments,"  107 
Stationers'  Hall,  81 
Steele,  Richard,  21,  79,  90,  196 
Sterne,  Lawrence,  53 
Stevenson,  R.  L.,  56,  139 
Stone  of  Scone,  147 
Strafford,  149 
Strand,  16,  58,  187 
Strand  Maypole,  32 
Stratford,  140 
Strauss,  Oscar,  89 
Streets, 

Abbey  Place,  189 

Abercorn  Place,  189 

Adelaide  Place,  117 

Albemarle,  53 

Aldersgate,  86,  105 

Arlington,  53 

Arundel    (Strand),  33 

12] 


INDEX 


Streets — continued 
Ashley  Place,  148 
Bartholomew,  109 
Beaufort,  191 
Bedford,  27 
Berners,  177 
Blshopsgate,  110 
Bond,  52,  187 
Borough  High,  115 
Bouverie,  19,  75 
Bow,  28,  29 
Bread,  98,  100,  101 
Brooke,  94 
Buckingham,  17 
Bunhill  Row,  93 
Bury,  45 
Cannon,  108 
Carter  Lane,  77 
Chancery  Lane,  64,  66, 

69,  70,  94 
Change  Alley,  110 
Charterhouse,  88,  89 
Cheyne  Row,  7,  192,  193 
Cheyne  Walk,  191,  192,  1 
Church,  192 
Church  Row,  197 
"The  City,"  95 
Clerkenwell  Road,  93 
Clifton  Road,  188 
Cock  Lane,  84 
Cornhill,  109,  110 
Coventry,  48 
Craven,  7,  17 
Crown  Office  Row,  63 
Curzon,  10 
Danvers,  192 
Dean,  175,  177 
Dover,  54 

Downing,  8,  132,  133 
Elm  Tree  Road,  187 
Essex  (Strand),  33 
Farringdon,  76 
Fetter  Lane,  73 


Streets — continued 
Finchley  Road,  187 
Flask  Walk,  197 
Fleet,  9,  58,  60,  63,  66,  70, 

72,  73,  75 
Fore,  104 
Foster  Lane,  97 
Friday,  100,  101 
Frith,  4,  177 
Gerrard,  4 
Giltspur,  84,  85,  93 
Gower,  173,  174 
Gracechurch,  111 
Gray's  Inn  Road,  94 
Great  Ormond,  174 
Great  Russell,  72 
Great  St.  Helen's,  110 
Great  Tower,  117 
68,  Greek,  177 

"Grub,"  105,  172 
Guilford,  174 
Haymarket,  46 
Henrietta,  25 
93  High,  112,  116 

Horse  Guards'  Avenue,  132 

Hunter,  174 

Inner  Temple  Lane,  71 

Ivy  Lane,  82 

Jermyn,  45 

Jewin  Crescent,  105 

John      (Adelphi     Terrace), 

21,  197 
Kensington  High,  195 
King,  25,  101 
King  (St.  James's  Square), 

45 
King  William,  108,  109 
King's  Road,  193 
Kingsway,  31 
Knightsbridge,  57 
Ladbroke  Grove,  195 
Leadenhall,  111 
Lime,  111 

[213] 


INDEX 


Streets — continued 
Lisle,  175 

Little  Britain,  86,  88,  105 
Lombard,  109,  110,  111 
Lothbury,  109 
Lower  Thames,  117 
Marlborough  Place,  189 
Mile  End  Road,  126 
Milton,  105 
Newgate,  82,  93 
Newman,  177 
Norfolk    (Strand),  33 
North  Bank,  190 
Northumberland  Avenue,  15 
Pall  Mall,  10,  33 
Park,  115 
Park  Lane,  194 
Parliament,  127,  133,  134 
Paternoster  Row,  81,  96 
Piccadilly,  47,  49,  57 
Plough  Court,  110 
Princes,  109 
Pudding  Lane,  85 
Queen  Victoria,  77,  109 
Richmond  Terrace,  132 
Royal  Hospital  Road,  194 
Russell     (Covent     Garden), 

26,  27 
St.   Bride's  Avenue,  75 
St.  James's,  41 
St.  James's  Place,  43 
St.  John's  Lane,  93 
St.  Swithin's  Lane,  108 
Shaftesbury  Avenue,  4 
Shire  Lane,  74 
Sloane,  57 
Southampton,  25 
Strand,  16,  58 
Surrey    (Strand),  33 
Theobald's   Road,  174 
Thomas,  115 
Threadneedle,  109 


Streets — continued 

Tite,  194 

Tudor,  19,  75 

Victoria,  5,  148 

Walbrook,  108 

Waverley  Place,  189 

Wellington,  29 

Westbourne  Grove,  195 

Wardour,  176 

Warwick  Lane,  82,  83 

Whitechapel  Road,  119 

Whitehall,  127,  132,  134 

Wood,  97,  101 
Stuarts,  130,  184 
Surrey,  Earl  of,  118 
Sutton,  Thomas,  91,  92 
Swift,  105,  192,  194 


Talbot,  Edward,  142 
Talbot,  Thomas,  125 
Taverns 

"Cock,"  The,  3 

Czar's  Head,  101 

Mermaid,  100 

Mitre,  71 

Thatched  House,  42 
Tate,  Sir  Henry,  165 
Templars,  60,  63,  64,  69,  141 
Temple,  The,  9,  59,  60,  61,  62, 

65,  66,  68,  69,   75,  82,   141, 

185 
Temple  Bar,  58,  59,  67,  87 
Temple  of  Diana,  79 
Teniers,  David,  158 
Tennyson,    70,    139,    140,    166, 

190 
Tennyson's  mother,  197 
Thackeray,  8,   60,   61,   62,  89, 

140,  163,  168,  173 
Thames,  the,  8,  107 
Thames  Embankment,  63 


[214] 


INDEX 


Theaters 

Drury  Lane,  29 

Gaiety,  30 

Globe,  115 

Haymarket,  47 

Little,  21 

Lyceum,  29 
Tillotson,  Bishop,   104 
Thurlow   (lawyer),  63,  174 
Times,  The,  75,  77 
Tintoretto,  155,  156 
Titian,  155,  156,  197 
Tonson,  Jacob,  74 
Torrigiano,  143,  144,  145 
Tower  Green,  125 
Tower  of  Babel,  119 
Tower   of    London,   107,    110, 

117,  118,  119,  121,  123,  124, 

125,  126,  129,  131,  146,  181 
Tower  Hill,  117,  118 
Traitors'  Gate,  121 
Traitor's  Hill,  121 
Treasury,  the,  132 
Trench,  Archbishop,  138 
Trinity   House,  126 
Tudor  House,  194 
Tudor  sovereigns,  184 
"Tully's     Head,"      (Dodsley's 

shop),  40 
Turner,  26,  80,  161,  162,  164, 

165,  167,  191 
Tuscans,  158 
Twickenham,  184 
Tyburn,  84,  90 
Tyler,  Wat,  88 
Tyndall,  189 

Uccello,  Paolo,  152 
Umbrians,   158 

Valence,  Aymer  de,  65,  141 
Valence,  Win.  de,  142 


[21 


Valois,    Elizabeth   de,   Queen, 

147 
Van  Dyck,  157,  158,  163,  169 
Velasquez,  160,  168,  169 
Venetians,  152,  155,  158,  170 
Verulam,  164;  see  Bacon 
Veronese,   155,   157 
Vertue,  Robert   (mason),  143 
Victoria  Embankment,  15 
Victoria,  Queen,  59,  179 
Victoria  Tower,  134 
Villiers,    Sir    George    and 

Lady,  143 
Voltaire,  196 


Wagner,  173 

Wakefield  Tower,  120,  122 
Walker,  Fred,  166,  167 
Wallace   Collection,   160,   168, 

170 
Wallace,  William,  88 
Waller,  136 

Walpole,   Horace,  53,  126 
Walpole  house,  194 
Walpole,  Sir  Robert,  133 
Walter,  Sir,  90 
Waltham  Abbey,  136 
Waltham  Cross,  59 
Walton,  Izaak,  71 
War  Office,  132 
Wardrobe  Tower,  124 
Washington,  George,   68 
Warwick,    Dowager    Countess 

of,  111 
Warwick,  Earls  of,  83 
Waterloo,  127,   131 
Waterloo  Bridge,  29 
Waterloo  Place,  46 
Watteau,  70,  170 
Watts    (artist),  80,  165,   167, 

168 
Well  Walk,  196 

5] 


INDEX 


Wellington,    Duke    of     (con- 
queror   of    Napoleon),    56, 
80,  124,  131 
Wellington,    Duke    of    (pres- 
ent), 57 
Wells,  H.  G.,  12,  60,  197 
Wernher,  Sir  Julius,  55 
Wesley,  John,  89,  138,  139 
Wesley's  Mother,  John,  93 
West,   Banjamin,   177 
West  End,  126 
West  Kensington,  81 
Westminster   Abbey,   58,    127, 
134,  135,  137,  141,  144,  145, 
148,  163,  185 
Westminster  Hall,  149 
West  Smithfield,  86 
Westlock,    John,     (and    Ruth 

Pinch),  62 
Whistler,  8,  165,  167,  191,  192, 

194 
Whitechapel,  126 
Whitehall  Gardens,  132 
White   Tower,    the,    122,    123, 

124,  125 
Whittington,  Dick,  85 
Wilberforce,  William,  138 
William  and  Mary,  145 


William    the    Conqueror,    68, 

122 
Williams,  Jane,  188 
Williams,  Roger,  89 
Will's  Coffee-house,  26 
Willson,  Beckles,  188 
Wilson,  162 

Winchester,  Bishop  of,  113 
Wine  Office  Court,  73 
Wolfe,  124,  131 
Wolsey,  130 
Worde,  Wynken  de,  147 
Wordsworth,  97,   138,  139 
Wren,  Sir  Christopher,  75,  80, 

99,   108,  109,   111,   117,  123, 

148 
Wycherly,  William,  tomb  of, 

26 

Yerkes,  Charles  T.,  123 
York,  Archbishops  of,  130 
York,  Duchess  of,  142 
York,    Elizabeth,    Queen    of, 

145 
York  House,  18,  130 
York  Watergate,  17 

Zangwill,  126 
Zurbaran,  161 


[216] 


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